RAB
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Post HBP. Snape shows Draco to a safe house, a plantation manor with a haunted past. Draco finds out more than he wants to know about himself when he discovers a diary belonging to one R.A.B.
1. Chapter 1: Sanctuary

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the Harry Potter universe. (This disclaimer covers my entire story.)**

**Author's Note: This story is set the night after Draco escapes from Hogwarts in _Half-Blood Prince _and does not reference the events of _Deathly Hallows._ It is written in Draco's POV. **

_**R.A.B.**_

**Chapter 1: Sanctuary**

Have I fallen so far already? At sunset I had been a wealthy pureblood. I had an estate, a social stature that one could not buy, a high birth girlfriend—everything that I considered to be of importance had been in my grasp. And by sunrise, one may ask? Apollo was still sipping his coffee while I stood in ankle-deep muck, the sweet scent of decay filling my nostrils. A coral red sun cast a glow through the cypress and vine wall in front of me, but gray clouds dominated all, as if making reference to their pale guests below.

Snape released my arm after a moment. I had never apparated with another person before or over such a long distance. I wondered where Snape had taken me, but I didn't ask. I had another question.

"Why?" I asked. Snape didn't look at me, so I prodded on. "What are we doing here? I was supposed to meet with the others. This wasn't part of the plan."

"And what plan would that be?" Snape snapped. He turned, his black eyes burning through me. "Have you forgotten? I was not involved in your little plan. You somehow managed to 'forget' to warn me. Of course, my guess is that you didn't 'plan' on me storming in on your little party."

Pride. It was a killer. "I could have done it."

"Boy," Snape began. He looked away from me, pretending to stare off into the swamp surrounding us. I mistrusted the action completely. "The Dark Lord knew of your obvious weakness. Did you honestly think that _he_ would trust _you_ to bring down one of his most hated advisories?"

"Liar," I tossed. "Why would he threaten my family if this was all just some sort of ruse?"

"Don't be a fool. He planned this long ago. He is already aware that it was I who killed Dumbledore, and that you lacked the hate needed to succeed at the task." Snape paused. "He only needed you to let in the Death Eaters, for you to bring Hogwarts into a feeding frenzy. He needed the blame to be set on someone else. They'll blame you, Draco. You are their scapegoat. The Ministry, the papers—they all believe it was you who killed Albus, not I."

I shook my head. "Potter was right on your tail! He wanted to take you down, not me! I don't know how, but he and his little friends knew something."

"No, Potter is simply hotheaded," Snape explained. "He needed someone to blame, and I am the obvious choice. He has no evidence, and the Order, as well as the Ministry, will still trust that I was trying to stop you. Don't take so much offense in this, Draco. The Dark Lord is pleased with the part you played. This is why he asked me to hide you away until his grasp is tightened on our world."

He was lying. He was a master at Occlumency, but even I could tell that there was something wrong with his tale. I had seen Potter's eyes when he had appeared behind us. He had looked from me to Snape, and he had channeled his rage away from me on purpose.

"Follow me," Snape ordered, walking to his left.

I obeyed him, resisting the urge to continue my questions. We walked only a few feet and my clothing was already pasted onto my white skin. Snape stopped, raising a hand. We had reached a seemingly shallow body of still water that seemed to swivel around mounds of moss and knotted tree roots. Notably, it also seemed to be the source of the horrid stench encasing us. A flat boat, primitive wood covered in chipped blue paint, hugged the bank. Snape stepped down into the rocking vessel. I followed suit without waiting for a command.

Snape tapped his wand on the boat's stern, and it began to move down the body of water. I log bumped into us and opened covered eyes and an angry smile. I swallowed my breath, pretending I didn't notice the alligator. At last we came to a stop at a small bridge that I assumed was for muggle vehicles. Snape brought the boat to a halt and the two of us exited, climbing up a short, slippery bank. Then I saw what was to be my sanctuary, my hide out. It was plantation style manor, flat fronted with leaning columns. It was dirty white, covered in streaks of green life. Pale Spanish moss hung from the limbs of trees that scraped at the flank of the abandoned house.

I realized where we were, how far away from home I had to stay, and the manor suddenly seemed to become more ominous.

"From this point on, no wands, no magic of any form is to be used. Do you understand, Draco?" Snape asked.

"What do you mean 'no magic'?" I asked. "Don't tell me you're expecting me to live with muggles?"

"Never anything so life threatening as that," Snape answered with a sneer. "This house has a long history, but that is not of importance at the moment. What you must know is simply this: this estate does not except magic. Any attempts to use magic will result in harm to you and the house. Many years ago, an unknown curse was place on this land, and it has yet been lifted. The house itself was owned by a wealthy wizarding family who had placed on it many security charms. At one point, it was even unplottable, but that is no longer the case."

"How am I supposed to be safer in a house without wards—in a house where I cannot even defend myself?" I snapped.

"Do you question the Dark Lord?" Snape asked.

I did not dignify that with an answer. Snape trudged toward the house, and I walked a few paces behind him. The front door was open. I snorted to myself. With my luck, it was probably be missing its simple muggle lock as well. I stepped inside, a side glance at the door. Indeed, my use was as awful as I had estimated.

The interior matched the exterior quiet depressingly. The house was glumly shadowed by the still hanging curtains over the windows. White sheets covered what I guessed was furniture.

"There are candles in the store cabinet in the kitchen along with canned and jarred muggle food. I also put a large supply of bottled water in the kitchen," Snape said.

"What? Do you mean there isn't any _muggle_ electricity in this place?" I cried.

"Nor muggle plumbing. It backed up only a few years after it was built—by muggles, may I add," Snape answered. "However, I do believe a muggle outhouse still stands outside the side of the house. It's very old and probably unsafe, but I assume it is more reliable than a bucket. Thankfully the wizards who lived here didn't destroy it. Of course, when they lived here, they ran the manor on magic alone."

"Thankfully!" My face flushed in anger. "You expect me to live in this shack?"

"I am certain the ministry has a deluxe cell beside your father's in Azkaban," Snape answered. "Be pleased with what you have. I will return with more supplies in a few days. Be reminded that mankind has survived on far less in the past. Go get some sleep upstairs. And do remember, Draco, no magic in this house."

I nodded, a numbness coursing through my body. I did not even notice Snape was gone until I heard the door slam shut behind me. The house was still. I was silent. This was not the sanctuary I had expected to find, but it would do for now.

**End Notes: Indeed, Snape fed Draco a load of CRAP when he fibbed about no one except the Death Eaters knowing that he had killed Dumbledore. If you'll remember, Draco never actually knew that Harry was watching him speak with Dumbledore, so he probably doesn't know that the Order and everyone else has been informed of the truth. Snape is not that ignorant and he has a reason for lying to Draco. **


	2. Chapter 2: Guilt

**Author's Note: The ghosts that will later appear are not quite like the ghosts at Hogwarts, so don't let that throw you off. **

_**R.A.B**_

**Chapter 2: Guilt**

Of course, Azkaban had to have its perks.

This, dare I label it, manor was an absolute hell hole. Were it up to me, I would have found a safe hide-out in a cave or perhaps an abandoned muggle factory (yes, that did seem original—what next, a closed down fun house!). Anyplace would be better than this, hence my optimism toward life imprisonment.

Not to sound paranoid, but everyone had to be against me. It was a fact. The Dark Lord, though Snape claimed otherwise, probably would smile at the thought of me being eaten by a rancid alligator. Severus Snape—he escorted me to my lovely new domain. The aurors don't want me dead but would love to strangle me and regenerate my dead body for questioning. Every one of my peers probably wanted to see me trip on my own well stitched robes and impale myself on a sharp quill. Hell, even Dumbledore had once told me I was the most annoying. . . .

My thoughts stopped there, with that name. Dumbledore would never call me anything again, and it was my own fault. My fault.

I quit pacing the upstairs hallway and walked into the first room I reached. The floor, the door, all of it was much too loud. A bed awaited me, still covered in a white dust sheet. I ignored the rest of the covered furniture and approached it. I did not remove the cloth but plotted myself at the mattress's center. The springs groaned and a mouse ran out from beneath my feet with an indignant squeak. I leaned forward, my own cool hands embracing my forehead. Sweat had stuck my hair to my temples, but chills ran up and down my arms, leaving them as spotted as gooseflesh.

I breathed slowly, aiming for the least amount of sound possible, but the thick humidity made my lungs work even harder. It wasn't the sounds of my own body, but those belonging to the house that unnerved me the most. I should have been use to it. Between the dungeons of Hogwarts and the old foundation of Malfoy Manor, I should have been use to hearing the strange night noises. This was different, though. Every creak of a floorboard, every groan of a roof beam was my name being called back to me from two thin lips that belonged to a dead man.

"_Draco . . ._"

I pushed myself the rest of the way onto the bed, not bothering to take off my shoes. I curled up, tugging at my cloak to cover my shoulders. I patted my pocket until I found a small vial. I withdrew it with a smirk—spells may have been restricted in this dump but Snape had said nothing about potions, and I could definitely use my old comforter. I uncorked it. The bottle was almost empty—I had been using it for several nights during the past week, when my nerves threatened to keep me up all night. I only had one dose left, but that would do. I tipped it back, swallowing it quickly and let the vial drop to the floor. I was asleep before my head hit the mattress.

I didn't dream, just as the potion promised. I slept deep and completely unaware. It seemed as if only seconds had passed when wakefulness tugged at my eyelids. I pulled myself up onto one elbow, a yawn shaking me. Light had flooded the room, and my eyes took in the peeling, pale green paper on the walls and the white decorative molding which framed the empty picture. Once upon a time, this room probably looked halfway decent.

I was standing in front of a window before I even realized that I was on my feet. I expected it to be gloomy outside, but the sun was bright, cheerful and golden. It brought a sour taste to my mouth. I opened the window, realizing how suffocating the moldy smell of the old house was. The scent of nature was not much more appealing to me, but I leaned out anyhow, surveying my surroundings. The sun was overhead so I assumed that meant it was sometime around noon. Trees were spread around the house, but they were not so dense as the wild thick just outside the boundaries. The woodland here was different from home. It was a bog of weeds and briars and clutching vines that seemed to strangles branches, but it also reflected life.

I snorted at that thought. A web could also be a symbol of life until a fly landed in its grasp.

I walked around the room, pulling off the white cover sheets. A vanity that seemed to have lost its use before the house lost its owners, a dresser of drawers, a fine wardrobe carved in Victorian roses and upraised curvatures that resembled snakes, and I was back at the bed. Beneath the sheet was a green velvet throw over off-white satin, topped with a flat, worn pillow. It was covered in moth holes and looks if one good tug would rip it to shreds. I walked out of the room, not bothering to look inside the furniture. I stepped back out into the hallway. There were several rooms in need of exploration, but before I could even approach the door across from me, my stomach groaned impatiently.

I took the stairs, amazed that I had not tripped and broken my neck when I'd first arrived at sunrise. The first floor was a wide, open area and the kitchen was tucked away in the house's far side. I found it easily enough. The pantry was as well stocked as Snape had suggested, and I wondered when he had brought the food in. I found the candles and lit one tentatively, looking over the assortment of jars and cans. Peanut butter? Corned beef hash? Tuna fish? A jar of pickles? Vienna sausages? What the hell were vienna sausages?

Professor Snape was obviously missing a few pieces of furniture upstairs if he expected me to survive on some wild assortment of muggle goods. I snatched a jar of peanut butter and slammed the pantry door. I found what I hoped was clean utensils in a draw and put a butter knife covered in the brown, chunky glop to my mouth. It was good! My eyes wided. Very good, actually. Why didn't Hogwarts serve peanut butter? I looked at the jar more closely. A flying boy in green smiled gleefully, surrounded by stars. It read Peter Pan. I made a mental note to ask Snape for more Peter Pan Peanut Butter as soon as he arrived.

I heard a door slam close, and my eyes shot up. I man was standing across from me, looking straight at me. I swallowed, almost choking on the mouthful I had yet to chew. He was walking toward the kitchen table, a look of pain on his face. He looked up quickly but did not speak. It was then that I realized that I could see right through his pale face. I could even make out the design on the wall behind him.

"Hello," I said cautiously. The ghost did not answer. "I said hello!" I snapped.

He ignored me, his eyes drifting to the small table he stood before. He lowered a hand, his index finger outstretched. Then he did something I had never seen a ghost do. He 'touched' the table, leaving a mark in the dust. His finger continued its quest elegantly, leaving a word written on the table. The ghost pulled back suddenly, a look of fear on his face. He turned, watching the kitchen door. His mouth opened to release a mute scream, and he fell back through the wall.

I blinked, setting down the jar and knife, and circled the ghost's table, my eyes on the door. I looked down at what the apparation had written in the dust. Three single letters glared back at me: **_R.A.B._**


	3. Chapter 3: Boy

_**R.A.B.**_

**Chapter 3: Boy**

I am arrogant. In fact, several beautiful ladies have labeled me as the most arrogant, self-righteous prat to ever walk through Hogwarts' towering doors. (Apparently, they do not think the Dark Lord or my father are up to par.) I have never denied or even regretted this simple fact.

So, with only me to consider, I did not spend the day cleaning my new residence, wrecking my brain over the identity of the odd ghost, or trying to guess what RAB stood for. Instead, I ate the rest of my peanut better, stared out the window at a very lovely crane, and napped on a sofa in the parlor without the aid of a potion. When I awoke, I realized that another day had passed, leaving me in an even more pathetic state. I resisted the urge to open another jar of my new favorite food and walked upstairs.

The hallway that I had so nervously paced upon my arrival was much longer and narrower than I remembered. Several doors waited patiently before me, silently begging to be opened. The green room was the first door on my left. I decided at once to find a more befitting room to sleep in when night fell. The second door revealed only a closet. A small crate balanced on the top shelf and a few dusty blankets were littered at eye level. I slammed the door with disgust.

"Bloody boring," I groaned, dragging my feet.

I reached for the door across from the closet, but stopped before I had turned the brass knob. A strange sound beckoned me from further down the corridor. It was the sound of running water. My eyes widened, surely glimmering with hope; however, a frown remained with me. Didn't Snape say that the muggle and magical plumbing in this house was completely useless? If I had been pissing off the porch for no reason, I was definitely going to have a few words for him.

A door cracked open, hinges squeaking. Light, probably from a window, streaked the dim lit hall. Then I heard the sound of a knob being turned and the water slowed to a halt. Without thinking, I took a cautious step forward.

"Snape?"

No answer.

I reached for my wand but found that it wasn't on me. I cursed beneath my breath, though I knew that I couldn't use the wand. Could someone have found me so quickly? I shrugged off the thought. Why would an auror be pouring a bath if he was planning on arresting me? I whipped up my courage—scraped would be better wording—and walked into the room, stopping when my feet hit brown ceramic tile.

It was, as one might have expected, a bathroom. A window, curtains pulled, invited sunlight inside. A lit candle balanced on the edge of the sink and from the top of the toilet. The room's centerpiece was a large, extravagant ceramic bath held up on four golden claws. There was nothing odd about it, per say. However, the hot water steaming through from between large white clouds of bubbles did seem a bit out of place.

I stepped inside, peeking behind the door and in every corner. The room was empty. I walked to the tub, pulling up a sleeve. My hand brushed some of the bubbles to the side. The water beneath was clear and warm to the touch. I raised a brow, and a smile crept onto my face. Perhaps this house wasn't completely without magic; Snape had just been too foolish to realize that. In an instant I was aware that it had been several days since I had taken a bath. I was most likely the source of that reeking smell that seemed to be following me everywhere. In a display of my wonderful arrogance and stupidity, I slipped off my robes.

I eased into the water, relishing the thought of being the only clean thing in the house. I sighed, leaning back and letting the sensual smelling bubbles tickle my chest. "Not half bad," I muttered with a snide laugh. I ran my damp, soapy fingers through my hair. For the first time in my life, my famous blond locks were tangled. That would not do.

Holding a breath, I shut my eyes and slipped completely under the warm water. I let myself be surrounded, my hair floating like waving sea weed against my face. Then I pushed out of the water, ringing the wetness out of my eyes.

"Have you seen my ducky?"

I gasped, kicking my feet as I clawed for the side of the tub.

"What the hell!"

I looked up to see a small boy sitting in the other side of the tub, neck high in bubbles. He released a smile that was missing at least two teeth and laughed sweetly, showing dimpled cheeks. Innocent blue eyes sparkled back at me.

"Hi," he said. "You were under the water for a long time. Can you teach me to hold my breath that long, too?"

"Merlin's beard, who the—who are you?" I pulled my knees up, as far away from the child as possible.

"I'm your cousin, silly," he said, his tongue sticking through his teeth. He shook his head of black hair, flinging water droplets my way. I sneered when one hit me in the eye. "Hey, don't get mad! You were splashing. Momma said not to, so I could tell on you if I wanted." He shrugged. "But I won't. You know how Momma gets when she's angry."

"You're not real," I muttered. "You must be a ghost. You have to be. . ."

"What are you talking about, Draco? We don't have any ghosts here—not in the summer house." The little boy splashed through the bubbles and pulled out a yellow toy that quacked and rolled its eyes. "My ducky!"

I opened my mouth to speak, but a sharp knock cut me off. When had the door closed? I shook my head at the thought. This had to be some strange peanut butter induced dream. Damn muggles and their drugs.

"Yes, Momma?" the boy called.

"Reggy?" asked a voice outside the door. "Reggy, are you splashing water on the floor again?"

"No, Momma!" the kid answered. "I'm not splashing, promise. And don't come in! I'm naked!"

A woman's laugh sounded outside. "I have to come in. I've got fresh robes and a towel for you."

"One more minute—I'm getting out!" the boy pleaded. He leaned toward me and whispered, "Hey, Draco, momma doesn't know you're here, so you're gonna have to hide."

"What?" I found myself whispering back. "This doesn't make any sense. Who are you? What are you?"

"Meet me upstairs," the boy said. "Now, hold your breath a real long time, ok?"

I looked toward the door. Its handle turned slowly. Without hesitation I inhaled and went under. I waited, blinking my eyes at the sting of soap water. Muffled voices echoed from the surface. I heard the slam of a door and pulled myself up with a gasp for air.

The room was empty. With a shiver, I stepped out of the lukewarm bath. A folded towel lay across the sink. I quietly crept across the bathroom and snatched it, wrapping it around my waist. A trail of my wet footprints paralleled an imitation half their size. The water droplets led to the door. I followed them out into the hallway, and my eyes traced the wet footsteps until they landed on a step. A fold away staircase extended from an open ceiling hatch that showed only darkness above. The attic.

_Meet me upstairs. _

I took a shaky breath, suddenly chilled in my dripping state. Tightening the towel around me, I stepped forward.


	4. Chapter 4: Exploration

_**R.A.B.**_

**Chapter 4: Exploration**

If curiosity killed the cat, then who the hell found the feline's corpse. Honestly, if the cat was sniffing around where it shouldn't have been, then some human must have been following it and discovered how the curiosity killed the cat. Or perhaps the cat's owners simply noticed the smell of rotting flesh filtering down from the attic. No, I was right the first time. Right? Oh course I'm right—I'm always right. Malfoy's are rarely wrong. Right?

"Damn it if I'm not confusing myself," I hissed, trying to clear the ramblings from my mind. Stupid brain, always giving me trouble! Why couldn't I retain wisdom or intelligence in the face of danger? Why was courage only a Gryffindor trait? I growled, finding it very unfair that Slytherins had so little an advantage in situations that required more that good social standings.

Tightening my fingers around the towel wrapped around my waist, I stepped out of the small puddle of bath water accumulating on the wooden floor. The attic steps taunted me, mocking my slow movements. I ignored them, refusing to lose my cautious pace. After all, one really didn't need a reason to speed toward a meeting with a ghost.

I swallowed a question before I could even open my mouth to voice it. What if the boy in the bath hadn't been a ghost? He looked like a real child, but I knew that no family was living in this manor with me. Could he have been some other creature, something more threatening than a common specter? At the moment, I had no answer, only an uncommon urge to walk up those steps.

_Meet me upstairs._

The attic was not as dark and foreboding as I had imagined from the hallway. The area was quaint, low roofed with a diamond shaped window filtering in coral light from the sun. Crates and trunks were stacked in every corner, squashed between random stools, end tables, and chairs. At the center was a rocking chair, squeaking as it leaned back and forth, back and forth as if some invisible grandmother sat in it, crocheting a mitten. I swallowed, reaching out and stilling the chair's movement. It was then that I noticed something lying on the rocking chair's tattered cushion. I had no idea how I hadn't spotted it earlier. It was a wand, about ten inches from the look of it and fashioned from a dark, reddish wood.

I picked it up gently, remembering what Snape had said about using magic in the house. However, there seemed to be no threat from the wand itself. No sparks shot out, announcing its properties. In fact, it felt completely hollow, as if it was nothing more than a feather light, carved stick. I sat it back down onto the cushion, and explored the attic further.

To my relief, no little boy jumped out at me from the darkened corners with riddles and childish ponderings. Nor could I spot any wet footprints (other than my own) for me to follow. One trunk caught my attention while I was looking from the child phantom. It was reasonably small, black and plain. The silver lock hung open, lazily. I pushed at it, and the lid rose. Inside, covering the rest of the contents, was a robe. I picked it up, sneezing as inch of dust in the room finally caught up with my nose. I spotted it then, the Slytherin crest on its breast.

I don't know why that made me smile; knowing that whoever had lived in this house last had something in common with me should have spooked me. Under the robe was a stack of school books, advanced seventh year editions. Why exactly would a family living here have children attending Hogwarts? Then I remembered that the little boy had referred to this place as a summer estate. Likewise, Snape had said that a wizarding family had used this as a second home. In that case, the school trunk made some bit of sense.

I packed the robe back in and closed the trunk gently, ready to move on to the crates. I was halfway across the attic when a familiar squeak halted me. The rocking chair swayed back and forth behind me as if it had been pushed. I scanned its form, half expecting someone to be sitting in it this time. Instead I found that the wand was missing from its cushioned seat. A thin book now took its place.

Someone must have set it there while I had my back turned. For some reason, that thought scared me. Forgetting the story of the fated feline and the murderous monster called curiosity, I picked up the book, turning it over in my hands. It was black leather, worn, soft to the touch, and decorated with silver corner slippers. The spine was so thin that the book folded back when I held it from one ragged edge. I ran my fingers over the front until they landed at the lower right hand side of the cover where the letters R.A.B. were engraved in elegant silver font.

I hesitated only for a second before making my way back to the attic steps with the book still in hand. I held it to my side and stared down the hallway. The wet footprints were gone. The bathroom door remained open, and I looked into the small room as I passed. There was no bathwater in the tub. In fact, it was bone dry, the ceramic streaked with brownstripes of dust and mildew. Only my damp hair and towel convinced me that the little boy and the bath had not been part of some elaborate dream.

Walking quickly, I reached the green bedroom where I had slept that first evening. I closed the door behind me and sat the book down on the bed, giving it a suspicious glare before turning my back on it. I reached for the rose covered wardrobe, opening both doors at one. Fine robes, some wrapped in paper or plastic hung from a wooden rod. Thankfully, they seemed to have one belonged to a male—I did not plan to wear a woman's frilly robes, even if I was in an empty house. I pulled out a set of blue robes and slipped them on, kicking my towel to the side, half expecting a house elf to appear and snatch it. Satisfied that my new clothing fit well and did not seem to smell too musty, I slammed the wardrobe closed.

Running my fingers through my hair, I turned back toward the bed. The book awaited me, calm as any object should be. I approached it as if it were an animal (as had been my ritual behavior with strange books since my third year class with that oaf of a teacher and his stupid biting texts). Taking a seat beside it I ran my hands over the cover once before opening it.

Its pages were hand written in tight, scrunched script. Though the first page did not seem to be dated or signed, I realized that this must be a journal of some sort, the journal of one R.A.B.

**End Notes: Sorry this chapter was so short, but I want to start the next part with the journal entry. Anyhow, review and tell me what you liked or didn't like. Thanks.**


	5. Chapter 5: Diary

_**R.A.B.**_

**Chapter 5: Diary**

_I have always enjoyed putting words down, the sound of a quill scratching across the surface, the release of emotions and accounts into a concrete form. It is like creating new life or perhaps only recording its highlights. As a boy, I used to write my words down in a diary. My father caught me once, and, knowing his temperament and stiff views on what a young man should and shouldn't do, I expected punishment. Instead, he snapped harshly that what I wrote in was not to be called a diary but a journal. At that point, he sat down to give me suggestions. He said that only a fool would leave real names on a parchment for anyone to see. Only a fool would leave an open book to his life laying about for anyone to steal. It was the most memorable father-son moment of my childhood. _

_I took my father's words to heart. I was careful, I was clever, but I have now grown out of those habits. I have recently done something that I am sure will prove to be unwise. I have joined a group led by a powerful dark lord. All around me, I am given encouragement and praise for my loyalty, but I know that these are all illusions. I am the fool my father spoke of so passionately. If these words were read, the Dark Lord would probably bury me after peeling the flesh off my bones, as would anyone else involved in these entries. It is a dangerous time, and I am in the mist of the terror. _

_But, still, I write these words, unhindered and unheard. I need someone to know what it is I feel in my heart of hearts. My father is dead—he left us gently, with pride in his eyes when he looked upon me. My mother would never open to any soul unless they had something she wanted from them. My brother has left. He will never speak to me again. He thinks I am lost, and he is more right that he can imagine. _

_I am alone. _

_I speak sometimes to the man who introduced me to this world of lies and black magic, the one who was first given instructions to aid me if ever our lord should request something of me. In laymen's terms, he is my partner in crime. I should hate him for his role in leading me into the darkness, but instead I call him friend, never aloud but always in my mind. He is more reclusive than I am, though, and I could never share my thoughts and doubts with a fellow Death Eater. There, you have it, diary. You have the secret that is not a secret. I have forgotten caution, and it will remain lost. There is no time for it. There is only life and death. _

A shadow fell across the page, and I cursed myself for not having brought a single candle upstairs. I hadn't noticed how late it was until the purple sun began to melt away, leaving only a stream of faint light for my already straining eyes to read by. I growled and stood, marking my place with a finger and holding the thin book at my side. I turned, glanced room's ajar door, unable to remember if I had closed it earlier.

It was my usual habit to make jokes at a point like this, but R.A.B's words had left me solemn. I didn't like to hear the truth. Somehow, reading it was easier. The diary had been left for me to read, though I still wasn't sure what kind of ghost could move things about. I knew the notion sounded extremely daft, but I couldn't get _his_ damn words out of my head. The ghosts, the attic, the diary. . . .All of it came back to me. And now, I assumed, the open door before me meant that I was suppose to walk through it.

I walked downstairs. As far as I remembered, the candles were stored in the kitchen. I left the thin book open on the table where the initials had first appeared and began ransacking the cabinets until I came to the candles. I sparked one of the adjacent matches and watched the fire catch hold of the wick. The light spread out like a beast, and my eyes followed it until they reached the page I had been reading.

"Stupid book," I muttered. "Books are for mudblood know-it-alls, not Malfoys."

The mantra did no good. I still wanted to read on, to find out how R.A.B had lived his life . . . as a Death Eater, to find out how I could make it through. I couldn't give the author a proper name, but his voice seemed familiar to me. Maybe it was because it sounded so much like my own.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm becoming a sap. Big bloody sap who falls for every single gimmick. Or maybe I'm losing my mind? Is that even feasible? Of course it's feasible. Since when do I use the word _feasible_?"

The kitchen refused to answer.

"Since I started talking to myself in an empty manor, I suppose," I scoffed, throwing myself into a seat at the table.

I sighed and looked down at the diary. A new entry had begun at the bottom of the page, the words more scrunched and hasty than before. I rested my sharp chin in my hand and began to read.

_I felt pain for the first time tonight. It was true pain, rushing through my veins, pushing my heart to beat faster, pulsating from every pore. It was the Cruciatus curse. The other new members had all felt the curse before—apparently, my home life is not as bad as it could be. Nevertheless, their screams were as loud as mine, if not louder. It lasted less than a minute, but I was already on my knees, folding so easily. _

_The Dark Lord told us, as if he was teaching us a new charm for levitation, "You will be expected to master the Cruciatus. You must harness your hate, your rage. You must be gladdened by your victims' pain, or else the curse is as useless as a bee sting."_

_I don't know how I could be so ignorant as to not understand what my new title entailed. I should have known what would be expected of me, but I had not imagined it to be this way. I had not imagined that I would be forced to practice inflicting pain on another being. I had not imagined that my first victim would be a child too young to even wield a wand in defense. _

_But that was who they brought for us newcomers. The Dark Lord said that when we could cause an innocent pain, then we would be ready to take on those who stood against us. I wanted to stand up myself. I wanted desperately to say no, but I could not. _

_I would not._

_I was too weak, and now I will forever have blood on my fingers, a deepened stain that will never wash away. . . _


	6. Chapter 6: Games

_**R.A.B.**_

**Chapter 6: Games**

Sunshine poured in from the kitchen window, basking me in its purifying warmth. A fresh sweat sprouted on my forehead from its touch alone. The relaxing moment washed away, replaced with confusion. Only a moment earlier, I had been struggling to read under dim candle light, and now it seemed as if it was already late morning.

Impossible.

"Or maybe not," I whispered, now quite adapt to talking to myself.

I stood, leaving my chair and the diary behind. I walked to the window slowly, unsure of what I would see. Children's laughter greeted me, and my eyes widened as I looked out at what appeared to be a well cared for side lawn. I groaned, watching two boys tackle one another. I was certain that the one with his back on the ground was the very boy from the tub incident.

"Oh, damn, not again. . . Snape's not going to believe the crap I'm putting up with here."

The child's eyes darted out, as if seeing me, and then he looked back up at the older child holding him down. It had to be the same boy, but he looked somewhat older with his hair grown longer and his nose and cheeks less rounded. Actually, the two boys looked quite a bit alike, though the youngest had mischievous glittering blue eyes. I suspected that they were most likely brothers.

The eldest held his brother down, smirking. He looked tall enough to be a second-year, school age at least. He brushed back his long black hair with his free hand and examining his nails in a bored manner.

"Mercy," cried the youngest. Though he looked to be a bully's victim, he was laughing so hysterically that he could barely gather the breath to repeat himself. "Mercy! Mercy, Sirius!"

The older boy yawned as if waiting for a better answer.

"Fine!" shouted the younger. "You're the greatest wizard ever . . . More powerful than Merlin even."

"'Bout time you figured that out," the older boy said. Though his tone was smug, I could see the humor dancing in his eyes.

Common sense finally took over, and I stepped back from the window and walked toward the front door. Rounding the side of the house, I caught sight of the boys again. What sort of ghosts played outside in broad daylight, I wondered. Were they even ghosts?

"Hey, you two!" I shouted.

Neither one of them looked in my direction. Apparently, they were done tackling one another, and now they were discussing what else to do with their day.

"Oh come on, imp, that's a kid's game!" the eldest said.

"No, it's not! And Mum said that you shouldn't call me that!" the little boy argued.

"Fine, IMP! We'll play alright, but you're counting."

The youngest smiled brightly. "Yay! But no hiding outside the house. . ."

"I know, I know," the other boy groaned. "Because 'mum says'—I can't make any promises, imp."

The little boy chose to ignore his last statement, covering his eyes and counting loudly. The oldest ran around the corner and out of sight.

"Hello?" I approached the child slowly. "I think I may have spoken to your earlier, in the tub."

"Twenty-two . . . twenty-three. . ." Hesitantly, the child broke apart his fingers, staring through them to give Draco a look over. "You never came to the attic," he accused.

"I did too!"

"Well, I must have left already. Mum wanted me to come back down—she said there wasn't time for games. Hey," he said with a lopsided grin, "wanna play with Sirius and me?"

"I don't play!" I snapped. His words caught up with me, and I raised a brow. "What did you call that that other boy?"

The child's smile remained, but his eyes steadily grew more somber. "Come on. You can help me find him. Last time we played, it took me _so_ long to find out where he was hiding." The boy reached out. I expected his hand to pass through me. Instead, warm, sweaty fingers grabbed hold of my wrist. "Well, come on!"

I was too dumbfounded to answer. A bloody ghost was touching me! And he wasn't cold as ice, either. "What the hell is going on? What are you?"

The boy frowned. "I thought you'd be able to help me."

He tugged at my arm until I began to walk with him around the house. When he reached the opposite side of the manor, he stopped. His eyes went to the two cellar doors at the base of the wall.

"We don't want to go in there," the boy said softly.

"Why?" I sneered, tired of his antics. "Are you scared of the dark?"

He shook his head, entranced by the sight before him. "There's a monster down there," he replied. "It'll grab you and hold you and take all your life away if you go down there. But one day, you'll probably want to open those doors anyway. One time, I did."

"What did. . ."

The boy's finger's tightening around my arm in fear, urging me to silence. Suddenly, he let go, pointing up. His demeanor was once again childish, the darkness gone from him. "Hey! I've got an idea. Let's go upstairs and look out the window. We can see everything from way up there."

"But I thought he had to hide inside?" Indeed, I, Draco Malfoy, would argue with a kelpie if given the chance.

The child stared at me, tears gathered in his eyes. "We're not looking for _him_ anymore. This isn't a game, Draco."

Before I could answer, the child walked toward the cellar doors and faded through them. With him went the light and warmth.

I blinked, trying to adjust my vision to the sudden change. When I could finally see again, the world around me was dark and starlit. A chill ran down my back. I was outside, alone. Animal calls sounded through the swamp, reminding me that 'alone' wasn't what it used to be. I quickly walked toward the front of the house, pausing only when I was through the front door.

"That was odd."


	7. Chapter 7: Understandings

_**R.A.B.**_

**Chapter 7: Understandings**

The encounter with the child should have left me shaking, but I was decisively calm at that moment. I'm not brave—that's a given—so I was left pondering why I wasn't afraid to go back into the house. After all, there was apparently a monster in the cellar and a few ghosts floating around that could bloody well touch me. Truth be told, this manor felt natural, more so that the Malfoy estate. I felt safe inside, even without the use of my magic.

When I entered the house, I was in such a state of deep thought that I didn't even noticed that I was walking back into the kitchen. In fact, it wasn't until I felt something pressed against my chest that I realized I had picked up the diary. I shook off the dazed feeling, snatching up the matches. I pulled one against the box, lighting the candle I had left out. Holding it before me like a torch, I made my way back toward the stairs and up to the room that I had chosen as my quarters.

"This is completely nutters," I muttered.

I half-expected one of my new 'friends' to greet me as I entered the room. I sat the candle on the bedside table, laying stomach first on the mattress with the diary in front of me. I stared down at the book in anticipation. I was waiting for answers, nothing more and nothing less. Some of the answers were inside, but most of them I already knew. I had been a fool not to admit to my own conclusions earlier.

Any normal person would be questioning the cellar or the rooftop or the ghost's cryptic messages, but I had only one thing on my mind.

"And it's not peanut butter," I replied to my more sarcastic self.

Actually, it was a name: Sirius.

I was certain that the child had called the eldest boy Sirius. It was a fairly common pureblood name. Or, at least, that was what I told myself about fifty times before I grew a brain. The name hadn't been the only thing to strike me as odd. The child ghost had been called 'Reggy' during the tub incident. That hadn't been as obvious to me. Now it made perfect sense, especially the part where the boy had called me family.

Sirius Black had been taken off the Black Family Tree decades ago as a blood traitor, but his name was well known, especially since his time spent in Azkaban. Though much of my life had been devoted to the purity and upstanding of my family, I had rarely studied genealogy. I knew much of the Malfoys as they were often the subject of my father's bragging, but I knew very little about my mother's side. I, of course, knew the names of my aunts (even the blood traitor) and uncles and grandparents. Sirius's huge scandal was brought up more than once, and Aunt Bellatrix was the subject of much discussion.

"'Practically riddled in disgrace'," I said. It was a common sentence that my father had often directed toward my mother, before his arrest.

One other member of my mother's family stood out. He was rarely mentioned, but I could remember Mother speaking of him a few times in my life. Father knew this and had used him as an example more than once: "Draco! You will do what ever you are asked for the honor of your family. . . Or would you rather end up like your mother's foolish cousin, Regulus?"

Regulus Alphard Black.

R.A.B.

I swallowed hard, trying to pass the lump in my throat. Two sons, two shames placed on the famous House of Black, Sirius and Regulus. And they were apparently ghosts of some form—ghosts who could touch and change the world around them.

"This is your tale," I said, running a finger over the book cover. "It's too short to be the whole story. Is your ghost going to give me the rest?"

I paused. "Regulus?"

A wind passed by the window, shaking the pane. I took that as an answer. With one swift movement, I opened the diary, flipping past the pages that I had already read and moving on to a new day in his life.

A passage caught my eye. I began to read. What I saw chilled me. It was a reflection of what could have been my own story, and I knew in that instance that it, like that night on the tower, would haunt me for the rest of my life.

_It is done. _

_I am fully within _his _ranks. My soul is no longer mine. I gave everything away for nothing. I did not even fight to hold myself—I let myself go, just as I let her go._

_I was summoned last night. My Dark Lord had a test for me, one in which he would not be participating. He dismissed himself, leaving me with three of my fellow Death Eaters. For a moment, I thought that our master had finally seen within me, saw the leaning of my heart, saw my hate for him. I thought that they were to murder me, but that fate would have been the more fortunate._

_Instead, two others garbed in their robes and masks entered the chamber, dragging a struggling form between them. I noticed first that it was a woman, her curves apparent in the white night gown she wore. Her face was beaten, so much so that I did not at first recognize her. When at last I did, I felt the blood drain from my body._

_She was a muggle, a girl of no high standings or wealth. In fact, she was of no importance to the Dark Lord. Her name, for I will give it here with my testimony, was Rachel. I knew her because I had seen her picture once before, the last time I had spoken to my brother. She was his fiancé. She was the reason he had left the family, naïve and in love at such a young age. _

_She was a victim. _

_I moved to take a step forward, but a hand held me back. When I looked to my side, I saw my old 'partner in crime' standing there, his mask removed and his hood down. I couldn't read is dark eyes; I never could since the beginning of our friendship. He could read me though, every thought passing through me head, and that was why he kept me back. _

_The others circled her. At first they only tossed her around, teasing her, spitting their foul anger at her. Then they threw their dreadful curses. She cried—she screamed—but there was no end. Two of them decided to make matters more physical._

_Once again I tried to move, and I was held back. I turned my head away from them, but I could hear them kicking her, beating her. Then, finally, when even I could sense her weakening, I heard the grunts, the steady thumping of hate tearing her to pieces from the inside out. _

_I cried, my tears collecting inside my mask, but I did nothing. I could have run toward her. I could have saved her, but I was too much of a coward. _

_When I turned back, she was a lump, her clothing stuck to her from the drying blood on her body. She could still open one eye. And though, she didn't move, she was staring straight at me. Could she see through the mask? Could she see that I didn't want it to happen? No. She probably only knew me as another horrible man who preferred to watch instead of do. _

_I grew numb at the sight. I couldn't move to aid her in any way. Instead, it was my friend who did the deed for me, the one the others were silently asking me for. . .He gestured for me to look away, but I could not. Instead, he stepped in front of me, blocking her from view as he raised his wand in her direction._

_And with two words that should have come from my lips, she was gone. _

_The Dark Lord was pleased. That had been the test. He hadn't wanted me to kill her, to hurt her. He had wanted me to let this horrible night take place, so that he would know that he had a fool of a servant who would stand by while the innocent suffered. I suppose he found that fool. _


	8. Chapter 8: Accommodations

_**R.A.B.**_

**Chapter 8: Accommodations**

"Peanut butter, good."

That primitive statement was the only logical thought left in my brain as I nosily scraped the jar with a butter knife, digging out every last granule of peanut creaminess. Muggle and wizarding worlds agreed that this could be referred to as "eating ones emotions." This was new for me—usually I would go to bed without dinner, possibly scheming, if I was in a mood. But I wasn't going to sleep this early morning. I couldn't.

Ironically enough, there was _too much_ on my mind. It was all because of the cast of that horrid diary lying in my room, resting on my bed like a living, breathing guest from Hell.

Sirius.

Regulus.

Rachel—Rachel I didn't know (I didn't even have a surname for her), but I felt like I did because she symbolized every muggle who had had the misfortune of meeting a Death Eater over the years. Sure, not all of them died. Not all of them were captured or even given a second thought. But they were victims, just like Regulus had called that girl.

The diary hadn't said what she looked like, but I pictured someone pretty, not gorgeous, someone with a secret beauty that only special people could see, floating in her eyes or her smile. While most of what I heard about Sirius Black was concerning his treachery, more than once he was mentioned to be 'quite the ladies' man' in his early years. But that all must of stopped with Rachel. She must have had something that held him in place.

And then she was taken from him: tortured, raped, murdered . . . gone.

I was glad I hadn't seen a picture of her, even though a morbid, nonMalfoyish part of me wanted to know so much more about that muggle's life with Sirius Black. If I had seen her, she'd probably remind me of someone—maybe not someone I knew, but some random girl from school or a shop. Then I would have to relive this dagger in my gut feeling.

Of course, that ache might be from the peanut butter.

Thank Merlin, the sound of creaking floorboards halted any further speculation on my feelings of remorse. However, I was now faced with a new series of thoughts concerning who or what was presently making their way toward the kitchen. I didn't have time to stand, instead preparing to dive off of my seat and brandishing a partially clean butter knife as if I were holding something much deadlier.

I was about to throw the utensil when I saw his face. Only the thought that he might be carrying more peanut butter in that brown paper bag stopped me.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people," I muttered, glaring across the room.

Snape raised a brow expertly. "And what did you plan to do, Mr. Malfoy, if I was actually an enemy, _spread_ _me over toast_?"

I turned, tossing the knife into the porcelain sink where a few spiders scurried away. "I thought there was no chance of anyone finding me here."

"I never said as much," Snape snapped. The wizard sat the sack onto the table in a flourish of black robes that was annoying hard to imitate. "And that is still no reason to leave the front door wide open. Have you taken no precautions what so ever?"

"Like locking the door? No, actually."

I rolled my eyes. I was quite pleased to see another 'living' soul—not that Severus had a soul. My bantering skills needed fine tuning that my reflection and ghostly relatives could not provide.

"So, what?" I continued. "Were you not going to announce yourself? Planning to leave a few gifts and fly off into the night like Father Christmas?"

"My plan exactly." Snape took a seat across from me, pretending that he was not studying my condition but glaring back. "I was quiet because I did not wish to awaken you—what are you doing up at such an hour anyhow, eating by candlelight?"

"I like to get an early start." I reached out, sliding the grocery sack toward me. I looked inside to see a loaf of bread and a bag of apples. There were probably more fresh foods inside. "I assume, since you're restocking my goods, that I am to remain here even longer."

"You assume correctly."

"On the Dark Lord's order," I persisted.

"Indeed," Snape answered. "It is not safe for you to return, nor is your presence needed at the moment."

The wizard paused, and I took the moment to stare at him. His face was more gray than white, pale and halfway to undead, curtained with hair that dripped of potion's smoke. Snape was never much of a looker, but he was worse for wear on this occasion, it seemed. Obviously, the Dark Lord had not been rewarding him for his loyalty or at least not in the way that a normal person would view compensation. I hated the thought of my own homecoming.

Snape stood quickly. "I shall return within a week. At that time, you should be prepared to leave for more suitable accommodations."

"Wait a minute!" I grabbed hold of Snape's sleeve. "What about information? What about a bit of bloody chit-chat?"

"Is there something you wished to discuss? Latest quidditch scores?" Snape asked, aggravation lacing his cool voice. "Perhaps you wish to file a complaint with the house elf?"

The sarcasm was like water to a flower. I sneered my perfect sneer. "Yes, I do. Perhaps you forget, but there is nothing civilized in this household without the use of magic—which isn't permitted, as you were probably going to remind me. I have no means by which to clean like a normal human being."

"There is a pump near the outhouse if a bath is in order," Snape hissed.

"Outside?"

"Is there anything else, Mr. Malfoy?"

I stopped myself from mentioning that a ghostly visitor had drawn me a nice _hot _bath. "How is my mother? Is she still at the manor?"

I could feel my heart beating in my throat, sounding out so loudly that it encompassed all, as distinct as footsteps and covering the noise of my own breathing. That moment of fear was caused by Severus Snape because I saw him hesitate, shift his eyes slightly up so that he would not be looking directly at me. Snape was an expert liar, and so he had been for many years, but I had learned much about the subject, and I knew to look for signs of worry in his expression. I saw as much.

As soon as the word _mother_ had left my mouth, I knew that something was wrong.

"Narcissa is as well as can be expected," Snape answered, voice calm and collected as ever. "Why would she leave the manor—she has no other place to go. She has been made aware of your situation, though she does not know where you are."

"So she's fine," I said.

Snape must have heard the panic in me because he suddenly looked me in the eye. "She is well."

I slowed my breathing, staring back. "Very good," I replied, mustering a small, haughty smile. _Change the subject, change the subject before you show too much. Before he tells you the truth. . ._ "Do you know what family owned this house? I only ask because I found a few things, heirlooms, up in the attic. I was curious. . ."

"Be careful exploring the house," Snape said. He took a step back. "Now, I must be going. I am sure you will manage to survive another week here. I will see you then—be packed and prepared to leave upon my arrival. And don't forget to lock your wand away while you're here, and bolt the door."

He didn't wait for my reply.

I heard the sound of my front door slam shut before I stood as well, feeling the full effect of sleep deprivation. I yawned, staring at the exit and yearning to go find my spot on the bed.

"Why are you lying, Snape?" I asked.

I knew I wouldn't receive a straight answer from him. I would have to find out on my own . . . But part of me didn't want to know, not if it involved my mother. I put away that conversation, reverting back to what I had been thinking of before Snape's arrival.

The diary. This house. It was a secret as well, one in which I had but one week to explore completely.


	9. Chapter 9: Punishment

_**R.A.B.**_

**Chapter 9: Punishment**

Gluttony is a sin. A deadly one.

Alright, so sinning wasn't really on my mind, but it was a rather good reason to put the rest of the peanut butter away for at least a day. Fresh food was on the menu, and it had never tasted better. I snatched up a second apple, walking through the house. After Snape's visit, I had enjoyed several undisturbed hours of sleep before I finally awoke to the noon sun, refreshed and ironically enough, hungry again.

This was odd, especially considering I usually only picked over my food. My new eating habits didn't concern me though. There were other, more important things to think about, such as the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut. The voices that followed didn't do much for my nerves either.

"Bloody ghosts," I snapped, addressing the door way as I approached it. "Apparently a peaceful evening's too damn much to ask for. . . ."

I walked into the parlor with a raised brow. There was no one there. In all honesty, I had expected to see the little boy running about shouting riddles. The shouting did eventually arrive, but, oddly, the voice came from no where.

"Sirius! I won't hear anymore lip from you—you're not leaving this house for the rest of the summer, and that's final!"

I raised a brow. It sounded as if the sofa was talking, which, in this case, would not be so very strange of an occurrence. A reply came from behind me, almost deafening.

"I am not! I didn't do anything wrong, damn it! You can't punish me for something I didn't do!"

"I can and will. I hate to tell you this, but you did do something wrong. I specifically told you to stay in the village—instead I find out that you're in that filthy muggle town, flirting with a local girl no less! Can you imagine what would have happened if it had been your mother to find out?"

"Father, please. . . . Mother doesn't need to know. I was just talking to that girl. I didn't tell her anything about us, about magic."

I took a step away. The hair on the back of neck rose as I felt a cold blanket of air brush by my shoulder.

"Boy! You will not tarnish our family name by consorting with your lessers. Do you understand me?" A dangerous silence filled the space of the room. "I knew this would happen when you rebelled against the name of Black, hanging with filthy mudbloods. But, it's my own damned fault for letting you stay at Hogwarts—well, that will no longer be a problem. Perhaps you will learn to be a respected wizard once you are in a more formidable atmosphere."

"What. . . .What are you saying?"

"You will not be returning to Hogwarts this year, Sirius. I had a feeling it would come to this. Your mother and I contacted Durmstrang Academy at the end of last term. They would be happy to accept you as a transfer. . ."

"I'm not going! To hell with this! You can't make me!"

"Sirius, come back here! I'm not finished with you. . ."

Foot steps sounded, quickly crossing the space behind me into the foyer. I followed the invisible ghost. I watched dust rise on the stairs as Sirius ran up them. And then I saw him, fading into existence one fiber at a time. When he reached the top step, I could make out the solid form of my cousin. He was young, probably about my age, but even with poorly taken newspaper shots as my only reference, I knew that he could be no other wizard.

Well, I couldn't just go back into the kitchen, now could I? After all, this was getting rather interesting.

I followed the ghost upstairs, taking the steps two at a time to catch up. He turned, walking into a bedroom. I slipped in behind him.

"Are you buggers going to do this tonight, too, because I'd like to get some sleep. . ." I shut up. No. Apparently this ghost wasn't talking back.

It wasn't until I looked up that I noticed the young man sitting on the bed, worried gaze sweeping over Sirius.

I stared for a moment, quite rudely. (Thankfully, they were both dead, so it didn't matter.) He was younger than Sirius, frailer too, and I recognized him, a middle version of Regulus Black, his sharp features somewhere between the child in the bath and the young man who had written his initials in the dust. It was actually somewhat eerie that it was in this time, after I had discovered his identity, when the ghost refused to recognize me, or even notice my presence.

Regulus cocked his head, wide eyed as he watched his brother draw his wand, conjuring up a trunk.

"I heard you fighting with Father," he said, softly.

"That's nice." Sirius opened trunk, pushing over a stack of school books inside to find a scrap of parchment and a quill.

"I'm sorry that you're being punished, but you did do something wrong." The young wizard looked down, face abashed. "You should have known better than to talk to that girl—And you left us in a panic, running off like that."

"Well, prepare for an even bigger scare then," Sirius snapped, a sarcastic, bitter grin on his face. "I'm about to do it again."

Regulus's mouth opened and closed, the expression on his face twisting from surprise to hurt as his brother's words were given time to settle.

Sirius looked up, slowly leaving the trunk behind him, scooting onto the edge of the bed beside his little brother. "Listen, Reggy, I can't go to Durmstrang. I've got friends—I've got a life at Hogwarts. I know you want to make Mother and Father happy, but they're too hard to please—they want the wrong things from us. Come away with me, Reggy. I've got a friend's house I'm going to stay at, and I'm sure his mum wouldn't mind having an extra guest during the holiday."

Regulus shook his head. "That's easy for you to say. You're to old for the Ministry to send home—I'm not. Mum would find me and bring me back. . . .And then she'd be angry. You know how she gets. . . ."

"I'm going, with or without you." Sirius looked away, doubt playing over his eyes. "I already have the money for my supplies, and Uncle Alphard has offered to give me a few extra knuts if I need them. It's time for me to get out of this family mess, set up a life of my own."

Regulus stood. "You planned this, didn't you? And you weren't even going to tell me? You've been wanting to do this—leave me here, to fend on my own."

"Oh, come off it, Reggy!" Sirius sighed. "You know you'll enjoy being the favored son. . . You'll do fine without me."

The other wizard shook his head, eyes wet. "No. I won't. I'll have to make up for your disgrace! Thanks a lot, Sirius. You're a hell of a big brother."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "So bloody melodramatic." He gave his wand a wave and his wardrobe door opened, robes sliding out and folding themselves down into his trunk. The heavy lid slammed shut, and the young man stood, taking up its handle. He glanced down. "You'll understand what I'm doing in another year or so, and you'll follow in my footsteps, mark my word."

The wizard trudged out of the room, his form fading lighter and lighter until he disappeared as soon as he left the doorway.

"That went well," I commented, glancing back at the other 'ghost'.

Regulus looked up at me, tearing falling over his cheeks and face flushed with red blotches. His jaw shook as he opened his mouth, eyes piecing me with daggers obviously meant for another. "What the bloody hell are you looking at?" he sneered.


	10. Chapter 10: Penance

_**R.A.B**_

**Chapter 10: Penance **

"What the bloody hell are you looking at?" Regulus sneered.

_Well. Damn._

To say that I was shocked would be quite the understatement. My eyes widened, a chill running down my back as the ghost stared at me with a tear reddened gaze, lips drawn back in bitter despair.

"Don't use that tone with me!" I snapped, crossing my arms in defense. I'd be damned if I was going to be unnerved by a spook. "I wasn't even alive for that little number, thank you."

The apparition stood quickly, rearing back his arm with a fierce growl and launching a book at my head. In the blink of an eye, I threw myself out of the way, almost stumbling to the ground in my haste. When I glanced back up, Regulus' (somewhat moody) form was gone, faded into the foreground. No big surprise there.

"I am such a stupid arse," I muttered, a frown on my face.

Behind me was a shattered mirror on the wall. The ghost had been talking to his own reflection—not me. Nevertheless, I had the sneaking feeling that little 'Reggy' didn't give a rat's bollocks if he hit me or not with is damned. . . .Diary?

I swooped down, snatching up the black book. It had landed open, spine relaxed so that it lay flat. _There are no coincidences in this house, are there? This diary didn't even exist when Regulus was that young._ It seemed the conniving undead were big on spooky plans.

The passage of writing was toward the end of the diary. The handwriting was sharp and messy, globs of black ink that looked more like a spill than the English language. Still, it was, at least, readable.

I sat down on the bed, studying the page by the afternoon sunlight filtering through the window. _Hadn't it been dark a moment ago? It must have been night when Sirius left them._

The entry wasn't dated, but it had to be after Rachel's death, possibly years after depending on how often Regulus wrote in the tiny book. I didn't know, or even care. Once I noticed the line at the top of the page, I forgot all else, falling into that moment in history once again.

_My days are, quite literally, numbered. Panic, shear fear rips me apart inside. And yet no one seems to notice. It doesn't matter. I don't matter, and, frankly, whatever my 'friends' and family think of me is meaningless. All that matters is life and death. I, unfortunately, am about to say goodbye to one and greet the other. _

_My demise is inevitable. Still, it is hard to accept such a fate so easily. The strangest part of this ordeal is that this decision is entirely my own. In a sense, I am committing suicide. Yet, it is worth it, if I can take the Dark Lord down with me._

_I'm a fool to write all of this down in this silly little book, a weapon that could easily be picked up and read by any enemy or innocent. I can't stop myself from recording this, though. It eases the pain of knowledge to know that it can be shared, that there is still some proof that I attempted penance for my sins. It also places me out of my dreams, lets me know that I am not mad, that all of this is truly taking place, that I did try. . . ._

_Voldemort. Yes, I will use his name. I will summon some courage. Voldemort. He wishes to accomplish what wizards throughout the ages have striven to do, to assure himself eternal life. I believe this has always been his goal. He relies on dark powers to get what he wants, and, in doing so, he has became less than human._

_He is a ghoul, or at least, he might as well be. _

_I am not his most trusted servant, yet I have uncovered the Dark Lord's greatest secret. By taking life, he has discovered how to split his soul into pieces. This is an old practice, one almost unheard of. He searches for powerful objects, and inside these he puts part of himself, creating horcruxes. _

_For so long as one of these horcruxes remains out there, hidden away, no one can kill him. Voldemort is all but invincible, unless the parts of his soul are first destroyed. I discovered one of these objects by accident, using the knowledge an old friend had bestowed upon to fill in the blanks during a mission the Dark Lord sent me on, to help in finding corpses to use in warding a spot very special to him. _

_I am aware that there are groups who oppose Voldemort, but I dare not tell them what I have discovered. Not only would such information endanger themselves, but all chance of attaining the horcrux would be gone. The chance would be lost, and with it, the lives of people I care for. The Dark Lord would hunt each of them down, like he will, no doubt, hunt me down. _

_However, he will believe that I am simply a traitor, not a great enemy. How wrong he will be. He is unaware that I have discovered what was in that cave I helped him ward. It is a locket, a powerful object in itself. More importantly, it holds a portion of Voldemort's soul._

_The locket of Slytherin is supposed to be indestructible, but this is not so. There is a powerful ritual one can use to break its magic, but it requires, in turn, great sacrifice. _

_I will retrieve this horcrux and use all that I have to destroy it. I can only hope that this action will begin a chain reaction. One day someone will be able to pick up where I left off, find the other horcruxes, and send Voldemort to Hell. _

_I will not have such an honor._

_Whether I succeed or not, this is goodbye._

_Adieu, my diary._

_--Regulus A. Black_

And there it ended, the rest of the page blank. I leafed through the remainer of the book, but it was empty. My head was so full, heavy and full, but I needed more information. There was none.

_He never came back._

"Wrong," I hissed, contradicting myself automatically. "He did come back. The question is, did he come back with the locket?"

I stared out the window, out at the swamp land. Suddenly, it seemed so wild, so dangerous. It felt like decay, like certain death. It was overwhelming, and it pushed me to a level of pessimism that even _I_ hadn't reached before.

"Yes or no, he didn't succeed." I knew it to be true. "He didn't destroy it."

I closed the book, numb.


	11. Chapter 11: Cellar

_**R.A.B**_

**Chapter 11: Cellar**

Strangely, I wasn't hungry anymore.

When I had finished the diary, I sat it down on the silver shards of glass where it had fell, and I crawled into bed, craving a strong drought that would put me to sleep. Alas, I had none, and I somehow doubted that sleep potions were amongst the new supplies Snape had delivered yesterday.

I did sleep though, on my own, after lying for several hours with nothing to do but sit and watch the diary on the floor across the room until the sun was resting and the room became dark. When I woke up, the diary was gone. I didn't think I would see it again.

That part of Regulus's story was finished. But there was so much left untouched.

Why the bloody hell did I have to read that stupid book anyhow? What good did it honestly do me?

"How does a dead man I never knew concern me?" I snapped.

I paused, waiting for something, any sign, be it a pebble at a window or disembodied voices. There was none; it was another dreadfully bright, beautiful morning and that damned ghost was refusing to appear and explain itself.

Perhaps that was because he thought he didn't need to. . . . Of course, I am rather thick in these matters, so 'Reggy' would do well to owl me from the afterlife or whatnot.

Alright. So I _may_ have had an idea as to why the house was suddenly so quiet. At the end of most foolish little stories, there are often morals. A part of me was left wondering if the moral of Regulus's story was 'and so, children, making Draco Malfoy feel like more of an arse is an endeavor worth returning from the grave to tackle'.

I nodded to myself.

Yes, because I am always right, I assumed that playing with my mind was the entire purpose of R.A.B. What else was it supposed to do? Show me some cryptic meaning? Show me what my future holds. . . .

"Bollocks," I muttered, leaving the room behind.

I stomped down the stairs. However, I found myself pausing halfway down, staring up at the unlit chandelier hanging over the main foyer. It was shaking, the glass bulbs tipping each arm chinking as it rattled. For one moment of sheer ignorance I thought that maybe I had caused the motion by slamming my feet on the floor. Then the house began to tremble, and I realized that, contrary to popular belief, I do not cause the world to spin, shake, or shiver.

In a brilliant moment of humility, I recalled myself some years back snorting at that stupid Gryffindor Neville Longbottom as he performed his favorite pastime of slipping on his arse. Immediately after this memory, I felt my body begin to fall forward. For a moment, all felt rather heavenly and breathtaking, the indescribable feeling of hanging midair. Then I tumbled down the stairs like a numb-legged idiot.

Damn.

My head was swimming. I assumed that was caused from the crown on wood contact; however, the theory dissipated along with all notion of collecting my dignity.

I winced from the smart smack, blinding light flashing in front of my eyes.

_The cellar doors, snuggly shut. The little boy was still holding my hand—the ghost was touching me! But I wasn't looking at him. I was staring at those cellar doors._

"_We don't want to go in there," Regulus said softly._

"_Why?" I sneered, tired of his antics. "Are you scared of the dark?"_

_He shook his head, entranced by the sight before him. "There's a monster down there," he replied. "It'll grab you and hold you and take all your life away if you go down there. But one day, you'll probably want to open those doors anyway. One time, I did."_

_The child looked up at me, breaking the memory. His blue eyes sparkled with somber knowing. "Are you ready to fight the monster, Draco?"_

My head was heavy and throbbing. For a moment, I attempted to recall whether or not I had just consumed a large amount of fire whiskey.

I collected my legs off of the stairs, groaning at the already forming bruises above my knees. "Bloody specters!" I hissed. "Attempting to get a new _dead_ friend to join in on the festivities, cousin Regulus?"

No answer came.

I rubbed my head and stood, feeling my face flush in anger. Instead of talking to myself, again, I gritted my teeth and smoothly strutted to the kitchen, zeroing in on a jar of peanut butter I had left out.

I was going to be a pig by the time I got out of this hellhole, I knew, but I snatched up the container anyhow, quickly unscrewing the top. After I had consumed a decent portion of the remainder of the contents, I sat the peanut butter back down, feeling some of the stress leave me as the sweet cure-all took hold.

A breath later, I was walking back out of the kitchen, toward the front door. I slipped out and walked off of the porch, turning the corner to round the house. I stopped when I reached my destination.

I was standing in front of the cellar doors, just as I had done a few days earlier. This time there was no small boy at my side. I almost wished there were, because then I would have had the pinch of courage left to squeeze out at least one more snarky comment.

Instead I bit my lower his, feeling my body tense as I leaned forward and grasped the rusted handles of the cellar doors. I took a shallow breath before pulling back. The doors swung open, leaving me staring down a dark staircase.

"Oh, Salazar, this wasn't a brilliant idea," I muttered.

In all honesty, I was concentrating on spotting the ominous 'monster' too much to realize that I was already stepping down the stairs. I also should have noticed that not all of the light reflecting my path was coming from outside.

With a high squeak, the doors behind me slammed shut--somehow, this did not shock me into turning. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and I stood, as still as a statue, puffing in the stale, cool air that seemed to rise from the dirt surroundings. The cellar was not completely dark. There was the faintest glow coming from its center on a cleared off patch of the flat, earthen floor.

It was circular, almost iridescent in nature, and, as I approached it seemed to gain strength, its light crawling over the cellar shelves and walls. I could feel it on my face, stroking against my pale skin with tendrils of silver-white mist. I went down on one knee and reached out. . .

"Don't touch it," snapped a voice.

I looked up.

There was a young man sprawled out against the back wall, sitting partially up. He was glaring at me through locks of dark, mangled hair. Blood dripped from a cut along his brow, landing on the dirt and disappearing into nothingness. He was faint, too. I could probably read a book through his robed torso.

But that wasn't really the point, now was it. I had completely missed the ghost sitting there.

"About bloody time you showed back up," I sneered. "I know who you are, you know. Regulus."

"It took you long enough," the man said, his voice lost, faded out by some invisible wind that seemed to be brushing against him. "I thought you'd never figure that out."

"You could have been less cryptic," I hissed. "And why in Merlin's name did you feel it necessary to knock me down the stairs? Is this how you entertain yourself? What, am I the first living being you've been allowed to tease since you've kicked the bucket?"

"Do shut your trap, Draco." Regulus looked weary, as if every word was lightening his ghostly form. "I don't have time for small talk. I've been waiting too many years as it is."

"Why didn't you talk to me like this before?"

"I couldn't. I was trying. . . ." He faded a bit, coming back into focus a moment later. "I have been trying, for so long. . . .This is the first time. . . .I've had the power to communicate. . . . directly."

This made absolutely no sense. "Why now? Why not earlier?"

"I needed. . . ." Regulus paused, as if collecting his breath—an entirely irrational concept, "a taste of magic." He raised his hand, pointing toward my head.

I felt something warm sliding down my temple and instinctively reached up. I winced as my fingers prodded through my hair, tenderly touching the broken skin beneath my hair. I hadn't even noticed that I was bleeding.

I pulled my hand away, looking down at the bright blood staining my nails. "What the hell is going on?" I asked, my eyes flashing back to the man's form.

"If you'll, shut it, I'll tell you already." Regulus groaned, straightening himself.

"Bloody pompous ghosts," I muttered.

"I am not a ghost, boy," Regulus replied. His voice broke off. "Or perhaps. . . perhaps I am a ghost. What is a ghost but a piece of one who once lived. . . .?"

Regulus became solemn, his head nodding forward, as if he was remembering something. He looked up suddenly, staring at me, as if I were a child he had just chided unfairly. "I heard you, Draco. I heard you say that I failed. You are not incorrect. . . .But I knew, from the beginning, that I could never succeed. A horcrux is a powerful object, boy. It is created by another's death, and so it takes life to break its hold on a soul. I knew this. I knew. . . .yet I was not ready to let it have me. I did not give all that I had freely, and I took me slowly. . . .When my _old friends_ arrived at this house, I knew my time was short. And so ran, I ran so that they would not realize what I had done.

"And they found me, Draco, found me and killed me on _his_ order. But they never knew about the locket." Regulus laughed. "But I did fail, I did. I didn't destroy the locket. I decided that I could let it sit and wait, wait for an end, wait for the one the Dark Lord's prophecy spoke of. . .But I did not know that it would make me wait with it."

"What are you babbling on about?" I snapped. I crossed my arms, defensively.

Regulus leaned is head back, seemingly against the wall. "I used a special spell, part dark and old, part of my own invention, hoping to destroy that locket. The damned curse didn't work. It lives, like any being, attempting not to free the soul within the locket but to destroy it, completely. Do you know how much magic it takes to disintegrates a piece of a human soul? My spell, it feeds on magic, ever attempting to succeed. That's why it let me speak to you. It felt you enter this place, and it wanted to taste your magic."

"I don't understand."

"It took all of my magic to attempt to destroy the horcrux. But I wouldn't give that last bit . . . I chose to run, and so I failed where I could have just as easily succeeded."

I raised a brow. Destroying a soul? Feeding on magic? "What exactly does this have to do with me?"

Regulus grew quiet.

"You're a wizard. Speak and your magic will flow. All you must do is fetch that which needs destroyed," he whispered at last.

His image began to fade to fine gray mist, barely the shape of a man. I could see his mouth moving, but his words were lost.

"I can't hear you? What is it you want me to do?"

One hand of gray smoke raised, a finger pointed toward the ceiling above, the rest of the man's form dissipating with the movement.

_Young Regulus's fingers tightening around my arm in fear, urging me to silence. Suddenly, he let go, pointing up. His demeanor was once again childish, the darkness gone from him. "I've got an idea. Let's go upstairs and look out the window. We can see everything from way up there."_

I blinked and could not see. I was in darkness. The light was gone.


	12. Chapter 12: Locket

_**R.A.B**_

**Chapter 12: Locket**

I had, somehow, managed to lose the day.

Finding the stairs out of the cellar in the dark had left me more than a bit pissed, but when I'd stumbled out onto the grass, its blades were dew slick and reflecting moon glow. My thoughts were too hazy to formulate anger.

I had lost the day. Impossible. This was another trick, some sort of memory loop. Or perhaps Regulus was as adept as that hack Professor Binns at making hours of my life disappear. Nevertheless, I went back into the house, walked upstairs and then up even more stairs.

"_We can see everything from way up there."_

From cellar to attic, and now a chill tickled my spine. I found the sensation odd. After all, I had just been in the presence of a pseudo-ghost in a blackened basement and had managed to keep my composure, but this empty attic, quiet, stale, was what sent my stomach lurching. Again, very odd.

What I was looking for was here, somewhere.

I ran a hand over the high back of the rocking chair at the center of the space, lifting off a silken layer of dust. There was no suspicious surprise sitting on the wooden seat now. So I filled the spot, carefully lowering myself, sitting slowly as the curved feet teetered forward to take my weight, old joints moaning resistance. I rocked back and forth once to test its strength. The chair's sharp squeak broke the silence in the room.

When I had first walked into the attic after following a little boy's wet footsteps up the fold-away steps, I had expected this musty storage area to be dark, foreboding, a regular haunt, but it had not been. A pink sun had been showing through the diamond window, lighting up my surroundings, and the objects I had found that afternoon had not seemed so strange then. But now the attic did fulfill its initial promise, as predicted.

Things were different now. Nature's silver light left a constant glow on the crates and boxes I had not bothered to touch and reached that student trunk I had explored earlier in my stay. Where could I begin looking?

"_We can see_. . ."

I could hear Regulus, young and alive, speaking in his childish voice, and I could almost see him pointing up. And then I realized that, perhaps, I should do something completely un-Malfoyish and take the more logical step: follow suit.

So I looked up, squinting at the moon glaring through the window, glimmering over a fresh spider's web. The trees were black silhouettes, and from outside they moved like waving sailors cast to the sea, set to motion by a spring breeze that I could feel from were I sat.

And then I frowned. I could feel it; the window was open. Sometimes I could be a truly stupid arse—the bloody window was open the last time too! Why had I not noticed that? Had I been that caught up in this little game?

An open window in a house that had not been occupied in years: one peculiar detail which _should_ have caught my attention and _should_ have drawn me to that very spot days ago. I made a mental note to never mention how truly thick skulled I was—no point in displaying that fact to the enemy—and stood, quickly approaching the diamond-shaped opening. The paint of the window seal was chipped, flaked off onto the floor where someone had pulled back after brushing against it. There was nothing hidden there though.

The window itself opened out and I leaned out, looking toward the hinges. The glass had slammed against the outside of the house and one triangular panel was missing, another below it broken and standing. I reached out, pulling the broken window toward me, glancing over the frame, half expecting something to be hanging by the latch. However, the short search was fruitless.

Perhaps an open window was not so strange after all. A storm must have rattled it open, or the last occupant of the house might have simply been watching the sun set. I groaned at that thought, slumping down onto the frame.

" _. . .Way up there."_

It might have ended right then, had I not looked up and saw something glittering in the moonlight. I squinted, letting my eyes adjust as I studied the black shadow and its dark backdrop. The roof jutted out from the house, and on its overhang something dangled.

"There you are," I muttered.

My eyes did not deceive me—it was a chain, just a small segment. The rest of the necklace was on the roof, hidden out of sight, probably tangled around the corner of a partially lifted tile. It was the locket. It had to be.

"Would it have been too bloody hard to tell me that it was on the roof top?" I sneered at the offending house. "I mean, honestly, would that have used too much of your damned strength, Regulus? All you had to do was shout, "There's a horcrux above you!", and I would have gotten the damn _hint_ ages ago. . . . Merlin, even the ghost loves to screw with the ickle dragon."

I pulled myself back through the window, glaring at the empty attic. "Yes, I do hope you've all had your fun!" A calming breath hissed through my clenched teeth. I shook my head. "Now, get your laughs out, old boy, because the talking to myself ends here."

Bitter muttering fueling me, I lifted one leg, delicately attempting to straddle the strange angle of the window. One foot still on solid floor, I bent down, folding myself to get my head out and scrapping my shoulders along the splintery frame throughout the somewhat lengthy attempt. My torso popped out of the attic like a cork. My right hand (still somewhat cocky with its position inside the house) grasped at the wall.

In all honesty the height was not very bothersome; it was the thought of that pesky fall which kept me from taking a breath. One would think that a quidditch player, especially a very talented Malfoy such as myself, would have no problem climbing out of a room; however, that foolish 'one' would need to consider that a quidditch player without a broom is no longer a quidditch player at all but instead an idiot dangling half of his body out of a window. Also, my nether regions seemed to be in quite the _pinch_, a completely unrecognizable situation for me.

Nevertheless, I forced my attention away from my manly pains, my eyes shifting back to that silver glimmer, the chain hanging ever so close. Sneering up at the necklace as if it were some pathetic first year squirming about in Hufflepuff robes, I reached out for the prize. And it remained in place, a hair's breath from my finger tips.

"Damn it," I hissed through my teeth. "I'll get you, you sorry bugger."

My muscles tightened as I took a breath and lunged out. A moment of delight passed over me as metal links tangled around my fingers. But that moment passed when I felt my right hand slip out of the attic to give the outside world I nice wave. My envious right leg wanted a bit of the glory as well and soon joined it.

Funny. What analogies pass through one's head when they're about to fall to his death! What a stupid 'one'. . . .

The pain reached my brain exactly one second later when the back of my skull smacked against the chipped paint of the outer wall and the falling sensation disappated. Then I realized that my foot was caught between the frame of the open window and that of the poorly hinged pane.

"Damn it all!" I snapped, blood rushing downward (possibly because of my inverted state).

Perhaps, it is times like this when I can best add new emphasis to words like "dangling" and "shame"—two ordinary words which I assumed I was very well associated with. Heaven forbid that the fates fold and let me actually get what I want the first time around!

I frowned, lifting my hand up above me. A locket hung from my fingers, twirling in the moonlight, a bold letter 'S' engraved into the metal.


	13. Chapter 13: Him

**_R.A.B._**

**Chapter 13: Him**

Well now! Mission accomplished. The prize was indeed mine!

This was no time for the somewhat diabolical laugh which managed to escape my mouth, especially since said laugh made the thin wood, that was presently holding my captured foot, creak in weak surrender. It would break soon. And then I would plunge to my death. But by Salazar's name, I got the bloody horcrux! Fan. Ta. Stic.

I can be a right arse sometimes. As can fate—for as _fate_ would have it, my situation became even more complicated with the arrival of a guest.

"What in . . .? Draco?"

It sounded like a gasp of horror stuck in a tempered growl, and the question must have been loud because, well, I could hear it from where I was. I was fairly certain that I knew the owner of the strained voice even before I jerked my neck back, receiving a quick glance of a very pissed looking pale face shining in the moon glow.

Snape.

Damn him. Damn. Damn. Damn!

I released a sigh and another cough of laugher simultaneously. Or perhaps it was a sob. No. I won't admit to it being a sob. It was a laugh because I suddenly pictured myself as the professor would have from his solid place on the ground: a flaying idiot, so pallid that he glows in the dark, hanging out of a miniscule window and cackling like a madman. Very damn funny. As least I had decided to wear a pair of my late cousin's pajama bottoms (or at least I assume they were his) beneath my robe or else there would be a bit more dangling Malfoy to chuckle at.

Within this second, I glanced back down at the nauseating view of the earth. And he was gone. Where the bloody hell . . . A figment of my imagination, I concluded, caused from the massive amount of blood rushing to my brain and out the cut on my head. Or so I thought for at least a good thirty seconds.

A hand wrapped around my trapped ankle, cracking the already weak wooden frame around it. I squinted up, brushing away a storm of splinters. A blurred Snape frowned down at me with a slight shake of his head. He grabbed my other foot and disappeared from sight past the window. My body dropped slightly, relocating the contents of my stomach to the brain pan region, as a new source took on all of my weight, and, slowly, I began to slide up into the narrow and, may I add, poorly angled entry point.

Half an hour later I found myself again inside the attic, nowhere near safe or sound.

Severus was seething, yet he remained silent, staring at me with a look that might very well have shingled the skin off of my back, had I been a Hufflepuff or another creature with little dignity. I, however, kept my wits about me, displaying all the rightful pride of a man of good upbringing, whilst tripping over my own feet and landing atop a crate in a sideways slouch, hiding my hand as I slipped the locket into one pocket.

"You're injured."

_No. Really? _

"What was your first clue?" I snapped, wincing as his cool, clammy fingers probed my tussled curtain of overgrown fringe.

Severus continued his glare. "I would think," he began in an icy tone, "that any student of mine would be able to find a more successful and less painful form of suicide than leaping from a window the size of a standard cauldron."

"Suicide? Are you mad?"

"Are you, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape asked. "Were you or were you not attempting to jump out of a window?"

His piercing eyes burned a hole through me, but I didn't give a damn if he was scraping at my mind or not. I had hid thoughts from him before, and I could do it again if I wanted. However, it was not the events of the evening which currently kept my attention. I was staring at Severus himself. The wizard was worn out, his greasy hair in his face to hide the red rings around his eyes, his black robes baggy. This was not the man I had last seen and this was most certainly not the hated professor I'd known in school.

"I'm not suicidal," I answered, at once realizing that the statement would have been more convincing without the extended pause. "I was just looking at something outside and lost my footing—ouch! Watch it!"

His fingers had wandered over the back of my head where a tender swell had obviously split. Snape pulled away, rubbing a red-tipped index and thumb.

"How did you manage to hit both sides of you head?" he asked, leaning back. His brow furrowed in worry when he gave my forehead another glance.

_Ghost attack, of course._

"I tripped earlier—that's what happens when one tries to navigate with _candles_."

"A house elf would have a hard time leaning out of a window of that size," Snape said. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that your fall was accidental?"

"Are we back at that again?"

"Mr. Malfoy. . ."

"No," I snapped, "I don't honestly, but I really don't give a rat's bollocks if you believe me—and why are you looking at me that way? What's wrong with you?"

Snape raised a brow. "Draco, did. . ." He hesitated. "Did something compel you to try to kill yourself?"

"I was not trying to kill myself!" I slipped off the crate and onto the floor, glaring up at Snape as if it was somehow his fault. "If you must know, I was trying to reach something outside and I. . ." My voice trailed off. "Why did you ask me that? What would make you think that something would try to compel me to do anything? What do you know about this house?"

"Were you trying to use magic?" Snape asked in return, ignoring my questions completely. "I warned you not to try. . ."

Again with the wand use! "_It felt you enter this place, and it wanted to taste your magic_." And that was it, just as Regulus said. His spell was the reason this house was dangerous to wizards, but that still didn't explain how Snape knew to give such a warning.

"No. My wand's downstairs, and I haven't touched it since I got here." That was only half a lie. I hadn't used my wand, but I had put it back on my possession, inside the pocket of my borrowed robes after Snape's last visit, if only for the feeling of safety it brought.

"Perhaps you. . ."

"I didn't use magic! Why do you ask? What have you heard about this place? Why can't I use magic here? It is because of this place, isn't it—it's this house that takes magic, isn't it?" I grew quiet, knowing that I would receive no reply. Of course, I already knew the answer, so that wasn't the problem. "How did you know about this place, anyhow? How did you know about him?"

Severus blinked, pretending the look of worry in his eyes was confusion. "Him?"

"The man who died here. My mother's cousin, Regulus Black. This was his family's summer home."

I had dropped a figurative dungbomb on the wizard.

"Where did you get that information?" he whispered, face ashen.

Did Regulus want me to tell him? Should I? No. Maybe not, but the time had come for action. I could almost feel the house, Regulus, pulling at me, wanting the magic in my veins. I had the locket, and it was time to put it back where it belonged. But Snape wouldn't let me go downstairs alone, not after my little "suicide attempt". I wasn't really sure if I wanted to go alone anyhow.

"I found something," I replied, "in the cellar. It's . . . You should give it a look—you might be surprised."


	14. Chapter 14: Speak

**_R.A.B._**

**Chapter 14: Speak**

"Hello, Severus."

Surprised? Yes. He was indeed surprised. And so was I.

"You're dead."

Snape's tone left no question, and his words were given with a sense of clarity that left no room for emotion, least of all shock. But the man was obviously feeling something. Wax from the candle he had picked up for the trip downstairs was dripping onto his bloodless, white knuckles. I leaned over stiffly, extinguishing the flame with one breath—the light from the room's glowing center was enough for the living to see by—yet the wizard only ignored my action, focusing instead on the dead man sprawled out on the floor before him.

"Well," Regulus's form replied, "obviously. You sent my body home. You put me to rest."

I glanced over at the statement but still received no recognition. This was not what I had expected when I'd brought Snape to the cellar. In fact, I had honestly thought that Regulus would not show. I most certainly didn't expect the ghost to greet the wizard. I suppose I should have realized that they two would know one another—even with the slight age difference, they would have both been at Hogwarts at the same time, and most Death Eaters had met other followers. However, since Regulus had never tried to communicate to Snape before, I could not have guessed that would attempt to do so tonight.

A possible answer to one of the questions I had posed Snape entered my mind—how did he know of the house? . . . He had buried Regulus, from what the wizards were discussing, but. . . A horrifying thought came to me: Snape would kill for the Dark Lord—that much was all too obvious. Had he been responsible for Regulus's death? Perhaps bringing Snape to the cellar had not been the best of ideas.

Severus tensed, cocking his head to cover the movement. "It seems that you did not stay at rest, however. I did not expect you to leave a ghost behind, least not in this place."

"A bit more than the essence of a ghost, I'm afraid, and as for the location, I had no choice—this is were I died. This is where I left all that remains of me, the real me, not that husk you put planted flowers over," Regulus answered. He smiled, his color brighter than it had been when we'd last met. The spell must have reacted to the potential magic in the room, or perhaps Regulus was exerting the extra energy for his guest's sake. "Still dead, though—don't give me that look, old friend. There's nothing you could have done to stop them from killing me, and, frankly, I was already at death's door. But enough about me, what have you been doing of late? Did you find yourself a girl yet?"

"Actually. . ." Severus paused, glancing at me as if to stop the interruption that had not yet left my mouth. "I've been rather busy . . . teaching."

Regulus raised a brow, seemingly pulling himself off of the ground. The wounds he had worn last time I'd seen him had disappeared altogether.

"Teaching children? Who would let _you_ around kids?"

I didn't know how much more of this I could actually take.

"What the hell is going on here?" I spat. "You!" I glared at Regulus brightened form. "It takes days of ominous ghostly visitations and bloody time lapses and old reading material for you to actually talk to me and now you're catching up with your old Death Eater mate as if it's not costing you anything! What the hell is that about?"

"Contain yourself, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said.

"Let him speak, Sev," Regulus interrupted. "I'm sorry, Draco, if you thought I was being cruel to you. I would have enjoyed speaking to you before, had it been possible. Unfortunately it was not. My present clarity comes as an omen—I've been stretched over the years so thin that now that the picture has finally cleared, I am at journey's end."

Regulus quieted, blinking heavily. His appearance seemed to lighten somewhat, and it suddenly became apparent why he was no longer as thin as parchment, fading into the background. He was positioned at the room's center where the glowing form of the locket's shadow cut into the cellar floor. For the first time, I realized that his feet were slowly sinking into that glowing light, a light that was becoming brighter by the minute.

It was drawing all that was let of him to that one point. The spell was swallowing him.

"Draco." Regulus said my name with a solemn tone that made me take a step back. "It's been calling me since you spilt your blood, your magic. The spell will take what remains of me, all that remains, then it will call you. Perhaps the combination of our magicks will be enough to destroy the locket."

"Locket?" Severus grabbed hold of my arm before I could retrieve the necklace in my pocket. "Regulus, I don't know what you have planned for this boy, but. . ."

"I haven't planned anything for him—the decision to help will be his own. But I fear he's already began an unstoppable process by coming to this place. I have something of the Dark Lord's, you see, and I died trying to destroy it, but the spell I used, it's still active, alive even. It has yet to accomplish an end—it has not taken every drop of magic from the place yet, and it certainly hasn't served its purpose."

Regulus was staring at me, a question in his eyes.

Slytherin bravery—an oxymoron if there ever was one. Yet I realized right away what decision I had already made. I had spent so much time exerting my energy where it was not needed, staying far away from the most courageous path throughout life. I'd always wished for something that I did not need to earn, traveling the easiest road, the way of the lazy gentleman, my birthright. And that wasn't about to change. Perhaps, though, this time the easiest path would be for that famous "good" the holier-than-thou heroes are always striving to rescue. And to think, all that I had to do was nod.

So I did.

Regulus accepted the answer. "Draco, the horcrux, give it to me."

Snape's fingers tightened around my arm, but the attempt to hold me was weak. I yanked free, pulling the locket out of my pocket. Before the other wizard could protest, I stepped forward, placing it into Regulus's palm and clasping my own hand over my cousin's. It was solid, and it still felt like the hand of the child I had met outside only a few days ago.

"Draco, don't!"

I turned to see Severus's wand drawn, pointed not at me but at the spot on the floor. "Do not take this from the boy, Regulus!" Snape shouted, his face folded in rage. "I know what it is you are trying to destroy—you fool, your magic won't be enough! This is not the right way! You'll kill him by using blood. . ."

But his voice was disappearing, an echo of outside thunder through a thick wall, barely penetrating my ears. I turned away from Snape. Regulus was white fire and his hand was burning into mine. I could feel it, the spell, searing into the locket, but it wasn't gaining enough strength. Then it seemed to move up my arm, slithering through my body, spilling out through the cuts on my head. Magic in the blood, the same as Regulus's, enough to feed the old spell.

There were other things within the blood as well, memories, all that I had seen and read since my arrival and more. Reggy and Sirius, growing up, visiting this place, their lives at Hogwarts, their loves, their hate, Regulus's thoughts when he kissed a Ravenclaw girl for the first time, his fear as he took his OWLS, the little moments mixed in with all the rest.

Then the memories paused. They slowed, or my thoughts slowed. Either way, I recognized a face I had never seen, a moment I had not been alive to experience. It was the night a girl named Rachel had died. Regulus saw her, knew what she was there for—he was afraid. A hand grabbed him, to stop him from interfering with the Death Eaters hassling the muggle girl, to save him from himself. A face stared back a Regulus, the face of much younger Severus Snape.

Snape, his partner in crime. . .

_'I speak sometimes to the man who introduced me to this world of lies and black magic, the one who was first given instructions to aid me if ever our lord should request something of me. In laymen's terms, he is my partner in crime. I should hate him for his role in leading me into the darkness, but instead I call him friend, never aloud but always in my mind. He is more reclusive than I am, though, and I could never share my thoughts and doubts with a fellow Death Eater.'_

A shadow of pale green appeared and the thoughts of Snape were gone.

Hate had arrived in Regulus, hate for his Dark Lord. And then there was the plan, but it was a blurry notion, old and meaningless now. I found my mind moving quickly, the magic trying to peak as the memories intermingled, and suddenly I was in a dark place and my hand was stinging and there was a smell and taste of decay. . . but it had faded in a flash, too quickly for me to see what had happened within that place.

The memories had slowed once more to a molasses pace. We were back at the spell, but it was something new here, something that had failed. Regulus had bled into it, and the magic, it had went with the blood. He knew it had not worked, would not work, but he didn't end it, left the spell in motion, still reaching out for what it need, and he'd taken the locket back, running up the cellar steps. Regulus had barely reached the front door when he heard the faint sounds of men in the forest—they had found him already! But they did not know, would not know. He could not let them see the locket.

The wand was in his hand before he realized it but nothing had happened. It was as if there was no magic left, and the wards around the house were down as well. The Death Eaters had seen him. All there was left to do was run.

He stopped at the upstairs rooms, glancing into them, shaking his head—the attic! The steps had been left down when his family had moved out and they beckoned him. He ducked into the attic, pulling up the stairs behind him. The locket, it couldn't be left in the open. The other Death Eaters might recognize it, might pick it up, might turn over whatever box he hid it within. He reached the lone window, glancing the ledge above. He was half out of the window when he heard the attic steps being lowered. With a shallow breath, he tossed the locket up, onto the roof. It slid and caught onto the shingles.

Barely glancing down, the wizard jumped, hitting the slick ground with a roll and a snap of bone. The pain came instantly. His leg had taken the fall the hardest, but he still had to move.

"Down there! He's down there!"

A run was a walk, a walk a crawl—he'd barely made it to the forest line when they apparated before him. This was what the victims had felt, this is what he had looked like to them. They were reapers, come to take his life.

One wand had fallen on him.

"Avada Ke. . ."

A blast of red light threw me out of the memory and tossed me onto my back. I coughed, trying to catch my breath and stop the world around me from spinning. My eyes stung as if I had been sleeping for hours. It was still so bright, the cellar full of that burning spell, but the fire had left me. I was cold, shaking.

I rolled onto my side and saw what had thrown me backward. Snape had fallen onto his knees, his face writhed in pain, but his wand steady, red light flowing out of it, almost endlessly, and connecting with the locket and with the standing silhouette of white that had been Regulus.

"Let go!" I called, but the words sounded like a whisper.

My wand was out of my robes and in my hand before I'd realized it. I trained it on the man, my palm, for some unseen reason, throbbing like a swollen bee sting. I hesitated, icy sweat dripping down my back as I watched Snape fall onto one arm in agony, unable to disconnect the spells before him, helpless to their power. It should have, would have, been me laying there, feeling my spirit being ripped out. The magic would take him if I let it. . . And would that be so bad? Would anyone miss him? Would anyone miss Severus Snape?

"_Expelliarmus_!"

The wand flew through the air, extinguished. The light disappeared with a crackling boom that shook the cellar floor. The spell had ended.

I dropped my wand in exhaustion, by breathing heavy and loud in the quiet room. I had expected the dark of night to take over, but it did not. The cellar doors had been left open and morning sunshine filtered down on the brown and dusty interior.

I looked down the length of my body toward the center of the room. I could still see the outline of the locket, only it was no longer made of light but of pale gray ash, all that remained of the horcrux.

A laugh shook my sore body.

"Good show, Regulus."

The comment hung in the air. I suddenly realized that he was gone, released now, and that I was alone.

"Oh. Shit."

I turned back slowly, my thoughts again my own, my memories mine to claim, and thinking worriedly of the night when I had last disarmed a man. That evening had not ended well. Then my eyes fell on the crumpled shape beside me, the still body of my old potion's master.

Shit, indeed.

**End Notes: Only one chapter left. I hope most of your questions (which are many) will be answered within the last chapter. **


	15. Chapter 15: Unfinished

**_R.A.B._******

****

**Chapter 15: Unfinished**

All good things must come to an end, someone once said. Bad things have to reach an end as well. I suppose the great master of the quote forgot to mention that part.

Poor sandwich; it had reached its end prematurely. I never got a chance to find out whether it was good or bad.

"Damn it all. . ." I bit my bottom lip, flaring my nostrils at the piece of stale white bread now on the floor, peanut butter coated side down. "Unspreadable, useless food. . . I hate peanut butter."

Nevertheless, the dull-bladed knife went to my mouth like a lollypop. I licked the silver clean, very deliberately stabbing it back into the plastic jar with what I could only assume to be a wicked smirk on my face. I scraped another glob of the sweet substance out of the container and it fell off of the blade with a plop onto another waiting piece of cheap loaf bread. I didn't bother smearing it in, slapping yet another slice of white on top and picking the sandwich up. Without hesitation, I took a bite, following it with a satisfied nod before I tossed the remainder onto a stack of other peanut butter sandwiches on the kitchen's lone platter.

Four should be satisfactory, for the moment at least. I sat a bottle of water beside the sandwiches, then glanced back at the cupboard, sneering hatefully at a can of "Honey mustard flavor" Vienna sausages. I needed to get rid of those. I popped the top, pouring the cloned, strange smelling sausages into a bowl and wondering if they needed to be heated. Where was a house-elf when one needed one? Or a mum for that matter. . .

I sat the bowl beside the sandwiches.

My fingers were sticky, and I found myself looking down at my hands, distracted again by my palm. I scratched at the burnt skin, but the tough hide refused to peel. The scar would stay there, that was the way of magical ailments. Unlike the goose-egg sized lumps on my head, that marking would never heal.

A damn scar, an oval-shaped indention with a striking S swollen at its center: funny, really, that it would all end with a stupid scar. I think I've heard it called Karma before—if I understand the meaning fully, 'karma' just managed to give me an extra arse kicking at the ending. All those days spent poking fun at a scar, hating a scar, jealous of a scar. . .Merlin, I would never admitting that to that effing _Potter_, that I might have wished once-upon-a-time that I could have something like a scar that would tell the world how bloody important I was. But the point, all swearing aside, was that I never realized what a scar meant. It meant that someone couldn't always heal, but they could live, they could wear what was left over.

And it wasn't important at all. The scar, of course, not the continuing of one's life. Life was important, more so than I had realized when I'd bragged to my housemates about having the chance, dare I admit I said, privilege to take a man's.

My, how things change. . . But to hell with reflections—Malfoys did not reflect (perhaps that was one of those 'good things' ending).

I lifted the platter, glancing hungrily at the sandwiches as if the plate were a bed of half-dressed veelas. _Control yourself, man! _

"This is an addiction," I noted to the peanut butter, as the platter and I continued up the staircase. "A _muggle_ addiction."

I reached the second floor, shaking my head at the observation. The first door was open, thankfully, because I did not fancy the idea of sitting down the food on a hallway that was currently occupied by an angry field mouse scolding me with a wrinkled nose.

"Are you awake yet?"

Coal black orbs appeared on the man's ashen face. Snape looked past me, glancing the green room, and then suddenly appearing to notice his position on the bed. The frantic actions quickly dissipated as the wizard collected himself, sitting up and straightening his black robes with a flourish.

"What. . . ah, yes. The cellar" he stated, glaring at me as if I were a disobedience child. His furrowed brow loosened. Snape had only regained consciousness once since the cellar incident, and he had been somewhat dazed at the time, cursing my bloodline, and spouting out nonsense about my underachievement as a potion's student. "Regulus. Is he gone?"

"Yes."

A mix of relief and frustration seemed to pass over his face. He glanced back up at me, staring into my eyes as if I had asked him a question instead of answering one.

"At least, I haven't seen him around. And the locket, it disintegrated," I added. "Do you remember it, what happened last night?"

"Of course, I remember!" he snapped. "You, Mr. Malfoy, directly disobeyed me. I specifically told you not to use. . ."

"Magic? Will you be taking off house points then, professor?" I attempted to sneer and failed. At his still expression, I held the platter out. "I made a bit of breakfast."

From the man's expression, I suspected that a second head may have just appeared on my shoulder. "Ah?"

The next sneer was successful. "The sausages are for you."

Snape gazed at them a moment, frowning, before deciding to ignore the unappealing distraction. "Yes, thoughtful . . . Are you feeling quite alright?" He glanced down at my burnt hand. "You were affected as well. . ."

"I was . . . tired, drained like. It felt like the life had been sucked out of me, more than the life maybe." I sat the platter down on the vanity and curled my hand into a fist to hide the mark. "Why did it do that? How did you break me from it?"

"Transference," Snape quickly answered. "You obviously activated Regulus's spell and my interference transferred its grasp from its intended source of power, from what I observed, your blood, and concentrated on the magic from my wand."

"Did you come up with that just now?" I shook my head. "Why would it matter if it used the magic in my blood or the magic from a wand? Why didn't you just let it have me?"

Snape's stare hardened. "Because you would have been killed if such a spell had progressed any further."

"But you lived. . ."

"That is where the transference came into play, I believe." Snape clasped his hands together, straightening as if preparing for a lecture.

"How do you know this? How can you know this?

"I knew Regulus very well in our youth," Snape answered, somewhat uneasily. He did not seem very willing to continue any exploration into his past, which made sense, considering that I had never heard the man discuss his own life. "I am very familiar with his various ideas on magical theory, as I was there to hear many of them first hand—that is why I realized the danger behind your actions almost immediately and attempted to stop you."

"But why would a spell be so dangerous, and why just for me?" I asked.

"I can only guess that Regulus must have initialized his original spell with a mixture of blood and controlled wand magic. Using magic without a wand as a catalyst leaves the wizard vulnerable but using blood, that which hosts the genetics of ones individual magic, wrecks havoc on a human body—a factor which has been documented for hundreds of years and that Regulus should have known would have fatal results."

_Whether I succeed or not, this is goodbye. _That was what Regulus had wrote, the final farewell, and that was what he had expected it to be, final.

"He knew he wouldn't make it through."

"Well the damned fool must have tried to live or the spell would have dissipated upon his departure—instead, he left the damned thing running for all of these years, all because he refused to give up his magic. Idiot. . ."

"Wait, what? Give up his magic?"

_Give up that final piece. _That must have been what Regulus met, his reason for still existing. He had not given everything that had been needed. He had meant to do good . . .But he hadn't been willing to give it his all in the end, his life, but not that which he deemed more than his life, that which he subconsciously would not allow to be robbed, his magic.

"Magic is found within the wizard, using a combination of different magicks with drain it to the point of nonexistence. A wizard would no longer be a wizard, essentially, but he would be alive. . ."

"I don't understand. It didn't drain me that much—I used magic directly after, and I used it again to get you upstairs. It didn't affect me. . ."

"Perhaps it did not affect your magic."

I hesitated, crossing my arms. "So, did it. . . Did it do something to you?"

Snape's brow furrowed as he turned, glancing the window seal where I'd sat his wand. He reached out, barely touching the wood with his fingertips. He closed his eyes in frustration before withdrawing his hand.

"It is as I suspected," he answered quietly.

"You mean, you're not a wizard anymore?"

He nodded slowly. "If my assumptions are correct . . . But who can tell if it is a permanent condition. We simply do not know enough about magical origin for me to know."

I took a seat on the opposite end of the bed.

"Silent at last?" Snape asked.

"What do you want me to say?" I snapped, suddenly angry at the wizard. "I didn't ask you to do that! I didn't ask you to interfere. Why did you jump in like that if you had the remotest idea of what would happen you? Does this have something to do with the agreement you had with my mother?"

Snape turned to me. "Explain to me, Mr. Malfoy, what exactly were you planning to do down there? Do you even realize what you've done—what side of the battle you're now fighting on?"

_Shit!_ I had honestly been that stupid! I had been concentrating so hard on aiding Regulus that I had not even realized the consequences of my actions. I had just helped in dealing the Dark Lord a significant blow, and I had not even been aware that I was turning my back on all that I had tried to do over the past few years. On my family.

Yet, somehow, I didn't feel too bad about that. I didn't want to call a man my Lord. I didn't want to be forced to do dirty work, work that was below me. I didn't want to be a servant, but neither did I ever want to be associated with Potter's little fan group of do-gooders. And then there were my parents to consider.

"He's going to punish us, my family, isn't he?"

I didn't want to say kill. Saying that would make it true. I had no doubt of what Snape's answer would be. Of course, I was wrong. I was getting used to being wrong.

Snape frowned. "He already has."

I must have paled because the other man reached for my arm to stop me from the fit of panic that would have inevitably irrupted.

"Listen carefully to me, Draco. You have been missing from the wizarding community since the night we left. The Dark Lord did not arrange for you to come to this place. That was my doing. Albus Dumbledore asked me to find you a sanctuary, if all went as planned."

My eyes widened, and I stood again, attempting to digest the information Snape had just given me. Dumbledore asked. . . "Then you really are. . ."

"My loyalties to the Dark Lord slipped a very long time ago. The Dark Lord is still unaware that I am not acting on his orders.

My body seized, my eyes burning. I shook my head. "Explain to me what the fuck is going on," I hissed. "How could you be working for Dumbledore—he's dead, if you remember. You killed him."

Snape winced, as if some physical pain came from his reply. "He asked me to kill him. His reasons. . .are none of your concern. It is safer for you if you do not know the details of our arrangement." The man's expression hardened. "What you do need to know; however, is that the Dark Lord believes you have abandoned his ranks in fear of . . . punishment for your inability to complete the task he gave you. The Dark Lord has attempted to locate you, but you are not a priority, and he, in all honesty, doesn't not care."

"You idiot! He'll hurt my parents if I don't come forward! Do you think I'd let my mother be hurt like that? Oh, Salazar, he didn't. . . Did he do anything to her? Because I didn't show. . . If he did, I'll. . ."

"Desist, Mr. Malfoy!" Snape snapped. "Listen to me. Four days ago an article appeared in the _Daily Prophet_ detailing the murder of Narcissa Malfoy by her recently escaped husband, Lucius Malfoy," Snape began. "Lucius, of course, confessed of the crime when he was recaptured. The Dark Lord has since abandoned the Malfoy family."

My blood ran cold. "What?"

"It was a lie, a lie that I generated and that your father believes to be true. The Dark Lord will not investigate far enough to learn of the memory charm that was cast on Lucius. Your mother is being held in a safe location. It would have been too great a risk to hide Lucius as well; however, he is perfectly safe in his current location. Since no body was discovered, there is also no chance of him being given the kiss."

"Safe?"

"Safe as one can be. And Narcissa has been told that she will be reunited with her son, eventually."

"Then my mother knows about you? I can't believe she'd agree to this."

"Anything to save her son. She did not know about me until I brought her word that you were safe. She was willing to go along with anything after that."

I didn't like the wetness in my eyes. I didn't like hearing all of this. It wasn't the mystery I had been trying to solve; it was far away, away from this manor and Regulus. Things had been simpler when I was trying to reach the end of his story. But his was over now. Mine was the one being written.

I could have asked questions, mistrusted his information. Fought him for being what he was, a very good liar. I could have done many things. I could have apparated to the Dark Lord right then and there, confessed and hoped for mercy for turning in a spy.

"What happens now?"

"You leave."

The solemn atmosphere lifted. "Leave? Why the hell would I leave?"

"Because I must stay, and if I am to remain unseen I can not have another person performing magic in the vicinity."

"They can't track. . ."

"They can track. You know very well that there are always ways. I will remain here for now, and you must go."

"So, you're going to what? Live like a muggle?"

"For so long as it takes me to recover."

"Why should I leave then? I was here first! Go be a bloody muggle somewhere else," I spat. For some reason, I felt a deeper connection to this house than I had expected, and I didn't like the idea of leaving it, abandoning it.

"You must go. You cannot stay here. I saw you hand—do you not think others might see it. What would happen if the Dark Lord was to find out about such a mark on you? He would know. He would know what you did."

"And suddenly I would be worth the effort to hunt down," I concluded, my throat dry. If the Dark Lord knew, he would find me, no matter how far I hid. I glanced back up, my stomach dropping. "I can't run forever though. And my mother, she can't hide—not after you've told her that we would be reunited. And I don't know how the hell you're going to blend-in here."

"It isn't forever," Snape answered, "only until the war ends, Draco."

"But he'll win. Are you honestly expecting bloody Potter or Dumbledore's old groupies to be victorious? Here I was thinking you were a good liar."

"It doesn't matter what you believe, Draco. You only have one real choice in this."

I squeezed my fist, feeling my nails cut into my palm. A silence fell over the room, and I was aware of how hot my back felt, facing the window.

"Do you want a sandwich?"

Breakfast was enjoyable.

Snape told me to pack, a plain, small bag, and to only wear clothing that could be mistaken for that of muggles. I, too, would need to blend, for the time. Magic would be done sparingly and wizarding villages avoided. Muggle transportation would be nearly untraceable by those looking for me, so it was preferred. I didn't have a direction in sight, though I imagined I would be traveling west.

The glove on my hand felt tight, and it made my palm itch. I had found it upstairs. It was a short-cut quidditch glove made of a dark colored dragon skin that would not draw too much attention. I'd found it in the attic, in the trunk.

I'd found something else upstairs as well. It was a diary, but it was not the one I had read from earlier. From what I could gather, it was the one Regulus had mentioned from his childhood, the one he had been so careful with.

I sat down onto the front porch, dropping my bag in front of me. I flipped open the front of the green, wood-back diary, smiling at the first page. Two faces were smiling up at me from a photograph sloppily pasted to the back of the front cover. It was Regulus and Sirius, from their days of games and innocence. They were laughing up at me, Regulus with shoulders raised as his brother messed up his hair, mouthing 'Imp'. Obviously, the picture had been added before Regulus had received the speech from his father about hiding names and identities.

Sloppy, childish handwriting crossed the next page at a slant.

_ . . .Summer's my favorite time of year. I like it because my brother is home. I miss him when he's gone away to school. I guess he's really the only reason I like the summer house, otherwise I'd be scared here—I don't like ghosts much._

_Today Sirius and I were playing hide and seek outside. I was counting when I thought I heard that older boy again, the one I saw here when I was little. Mum's always said not to be afraid of ghosts, but she also said that they couldn't touch you. It was strange, but I could have sworn the ghost touched my hand._

_Maybe it was just Sirius fooling around. He likes to play pranks like that. _

"You should be going," Severus said, stepping out from behind me. "It's nearly nightfall, and it will be difficult for you to find a ride on the roads if you wait much longer."

"I'm actually supposed to get in one of those . . . auto-mobiles with some strange muggle I've never met?" I asked for the third time, closing the diary.

"You have your wand if you need it," Snape replied. "The sooner you leave, the better."

I packed the book into my bag, slinging it onto my shoulder. "You'll get word to my mother then?"

"When it is safe."

For a moment, I actually considered saying those two poisonous words of gratification—humility was not a Malfoy's friend. And then I wondered if I was actually thankful of what Snape had done, of his interference. I still wasn't quite sure when I stepped away, walking off without a goodbye toward the little blue boat I had arrived in.

Good things, bad things, all things seem to come to end. But I find that hard to believe, really. It seemed to me that all things remain unfinished, stories on top of stories. Somehow my own story had met with Regulus's, and his was now continuing through mine, it seemed. I tried to guess, with half a heart, who would pick mine up, when the time came.

END

**End Notes: Thank you readers! I really enjoyed writing for you. I hope you liked this long last chapter. If you have questions ask—be sure to tell what you thought. Thanks again. **


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